


Listen, He Who Ventures

by Wife_of_Bath



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Explicit Graphic Violence, Fairy Tale Elements, Historical References, Horror, Inspired by Nosferatu (Murnau and Herzog), M/M, References to child murder, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Vampire Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8425870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wife_of_Bath/pseuds/Wife_of_Bath
Summary: Here follows the tale of Will Graham, his daughter Abigail, and the terrifying creature that fell upon them with a deep and consuming love.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tbsavafob6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tbsavafob6/gifts).



In a little town, in a little house, lived a professor, his adopted daughter, and their dog.

The professor, known simply as Will Graham, was a shy, reticent man who preferred solitude to the company of others. While conversing, he kept his head down and sentences short, for he had the ability (some said curse) to completely understand a person’s thoughts and emotions just from a few minutes of observation. He did not direct this odd skill only at the living, for Will was a professor of history, specializing in the wars, plagues and fears that marked Europe between the Fall of Rome and the rise of the Renaissance. His lectures were often lurid, full of death and torture, although this did not give Will any unique pleasure. He simply wished to instruct. The content, however, raised eyebrows to the point where Will found himself defending his teaching before the university’s solemn administrators. Quite unconsciously, he began mimicking his judges’ expressions and mannerisms until the administrators felt as if they were looking through a distorted mirror. Unnerved, they let him go without reprimand or censure. No one spoke anymore about it.

His adopted daughter, Abigail Hobbs, was a pretty girl of eighteen with the large expressive eyes of a frightened rabbit. Like her guardian, Abigail was quiet and kept to herself, although she had an advantage over Will in that she possessed someone she could call a close friend. On the left side of her neck, Abigail sported a pale, faded scar from the time her father had cut her throat open, seconds before Will shot him between the eyes. Garrett Jacob Hobbs was, after all, a murderer, one of the most notorious since Peter Stumpp. Some whispered that Hobbs had used his daughter, then a small child, as a lure for the dark-eyed young ladies from nearby villages. Wisely, Abigail kept her mouth shut about her past and covered her scarred neck with delicately embroidered shawls. Yet eyes continued to watch her, anxiously anticipating the day she would exchange a sewing needle for a knife.

Winston, the dog, was probably the most intelligent of the household. He had a special talent for recognizing threats, rewarding the nosey and troublesome with growls and bared teeth.

All in all, despite their troubles, the three formed a happy little family. Will and Abigail read together at night, and they had picnics on Sundays. On special occasions, they went fishing. But while they were mostly content in their lives, they both sensed that something was missing, something they did not have a name for or know what it possibly could be.

Until the doctor came.

One night, black and still, as Will, Abigail, and Winston slept, a ship slipped like a dagger into port. If any eyes had been able to see it, they would have said it was a very ordinary ship, perhaps a bit nicer than most. It sailed with determination and purpose, but this was not due to the guidance of the captain, for he was dead. The whole crew was dead. Not a soul was aboard, or more accurately, nothing possessing a soul was aboard. Reaching its appointed destination, the ship stilled. Was that a figure creeping off the vessel and disappearing into town? Who can say? For no one witnessed the ship of death’s arrival.

The next morning, the town’s officials put on their top hats and frock coats and gathered around the silent ship. They noted the missing crew and grew uneasy. They found the captain bound to the wheel and grew frightened.

Across town, safely ensconced in their home, Will and Abigail ate breakfast.

“They finished work on the old house,” Abigail announced, leaning on the windowsill and nibbling on a piece of toast.

“Hmm?” Will murmured. He turned another page of his book.

“I said they finished work on the old house,” she repeated, her voice a little louder.

“Oh?” Will put his book away, not for any interest in the restoration’s progress but because Abigail clearly wanted to talk. “I had not heard that.”

“Mmm,” Abigail nodded slowly, a small smirk on her lips. “Whoever bought it must be moving in soon. They have to be very wealthy. Marissa thinks they may even be nobility.”

Underneath the table, Winston whined anxiously. Will reached down to scratch his ears. “And does Miss Schurr have any other information on our new neighbors?”

“Of course not.” Abigail returned to her chair. “She is just speculating like everyone else.” Winston shifted to her side, and she rewarded him with a piece of bacon. “Will we do anything to welcome them?”

“A simple hello should suffice.” Will highly doubted whoever had purchased the sixteenth century mansion and returned it to its former glory would want anything to do with them. Catching sight of the time on his pocket watch, he scrambled up, narrowly avoiding spilling eggs and coffee on his trousers.

“I need to go. Be good, Winston.” He pressed a quick kiss to Abigail’s forehead, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door. Abigail followed with Winston at her heels.

“Have a nice day, Will.”

“You too. Do not be late for school.”

She grinned. “Do as I say and not as I do?”

“Something like that.” He kissed her forehead again before she playfully shoved him out the door.

“Go now, or you will be late!”

On his route, Will habitually passed the docks. That morning, a commotion surrounding one of the ships slowed his pace. He saw the ship of death, still and empty. He saw the officials bending over long boxes filled with dirt. They looked like coffins. Fixing his eyes on the cobblestones, Will quickened his pace and continued on.

At the university, his lectures passed without incident. Finally, at the close of the day, as the last of his students trudged out, Will stuffed essays, books, and loose pages of notes into his leather bag. If he hurried, he could be home before dark.

Constable Crawford approached the podium. Will did not look up.

“Hello Will.”

“Jack.” Discretely, Will adjusted his spectacles until they hung low on the bridge of his nose. “How was the trip?”

“It was a success.” Evidently so. Crawford looked better than he had in months. Gone were the dark circles under his eyes and the weight of grief on his shoulders. He smiled, but it was a mask poorly hiding some new worry that instantly set Will’s teeth on edge.

“I found a doctor in Vilnius,” he continued. “His treatments have worked well for Mrs. Crawford. In fact,” Crawford turned to the door. “Come in, Dr. Lecter.”

A man, seemingly carved out of shadow, entered the lecture hall. Will’s breath caught in his throat. Dr. Lecter’s gait was measured, his bearing graceful. With a polite smile, he extended an arm to shake Will’s hand.

“How do you do, Professor Graham?” Dr. Lecter said. “I am pleased to meet you. Constable Crawford has told me much about you.”

Will’s nerves faintly trembled. “Has he?”

“They were completely good things, I assure you,” Dr. Lecter quickly clarified. “You have a unique gift for understanding the past.”

“Well, teaching history is more than rote memorization.” His face flushed hot. Swallowing hard, Will focused on the intricate pattern decorating Dr. Lecter’s necktie.

“How did you meet?”

“Dr. Bloom recommended I contact him,” Crawford explained. “He is not only a skilled physician, but he is also a noted expert of the mind.”

“You flatter me, Constable.”

“It is not flattery when it is the truth.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Lecter acquiesced. “I hope I do not disappoint. However, I regret I must depart. It is getting late, and there is much to do before I am settled.” He turned to Will. “I hope we will see each other again soon. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Will watched him disappear into the darkness, the rapid beating of his heart matching the rhythm of Dr. Lecter’s shoes tapping against the wooden floor. Why he was so affected, Will did not know. It could not simply stem from Dr. Lecter’s compliment, although Will was unused to praise. On the surface, Dr. Lecter did not appear particularly remarkable. He was well-mannered, an ideal gentleman, the type society held up for all to admire and emulate. The type Will normally avoided.

He was staring at the empty doorway. Blinking, Will forced all thoughts of Dr. Lecter out of his head. He busied himself with the strap of his leather bag. Crawford had come for a reason.

“You did not come here just to introduce me to your wife’s physician, did you?”

“No.” A harsh solemnity settled on Crawford’s features. He scanned the lecture hall, confirming they were truly alone.

“Did you see that ship this morning?”

“What of it?”

Crawford told him of the lost crew and dead captain. “Price, Zeller, and Miss Katz are examining the body now. There was no cargo to speak of. Just a dead body.”

“Plague ship,” a voice in Will’s head warned.

“You think the ship could be carrying something?”

A few minutes passed before Crawford spoke. “That is what I am afraid of.”

..

In the distance, Will heard a crash and a scream. Terror seized him. He raced to Abigail’s room, only to find the door locked. Will slammed his weight against the wood once, twice, three times until it splintered, and he burst inside.

The walls of Abigail’s room had been knocked out, leaving curtain-like darkness hanging on either side of her bed. A sliver of moonlight shone down on her. Abigail’s skin was pale and gleaming. She lay motionless, her eyes fixed on some invisible point on the ceiling. Will took a step. His toes brushed against something warm, wet, and sticky. He followed the trail across the floor, up the bed, to a gash in Abigail’s neck viciously spurting blood. Lunging forward, Will clamped a hand on the wound. Abigail did not stir. The moonbeams gave her blood a metallic glint, making her resemble a medieval reliquary covered in silver and gems to house the bones of a beloved virgin martyr. She was beautiful like this.

Leaning close to her lips, Will listened to her fragile breath. He gripped the knife, relishing how her blood, her precious blood, splashed on him. He smiled. “Hush now, sweet girl,” he soothed. A pair of eyes bore into the back of his skull, but he refused to turn around. His only thoughts were of Abigail. “My dear one,” he whispered. “See?”

Will awoke wrapped in a cocoon of wet bedclothes. Darkness cloaked the room. For several minutes, he lay still, waiting for his pounding heart to relax, before he peeling off the sweat-drenched sheets. He could almost smell blood soaked into the cloth. Without bothering to bathe, Will dressed quickly in a shirt and trousers. It was both too early and too late for any decent person to be up, but there would be no more sleep for him this night. He grabbed his bag and slogged out of his room, desperate for something other than the terrors of the night to occupy his mind.

Roused by Will’s movements, Winston rose from his own bed and followed him. Together, they paused at Abigail’s room. She was asleep. She was safe. Softly, Will closed the door.

Downstairs in his study, Will lit the oil lamp. It provided little illumination, but it was enough to read by. Taking out the first of his students’ essays, Will began to work.

A knock abruptly broke his attention. Will rubbed his eyes and looked up to see morning light streaming in between the curtains. He briefly wondered how much time had passed without his notice. The knock came again, polite but persistent. Tossing the hastily written essay on the desk, Will stood up to answer the door.

“Good morning, Professor Graham,” Dr. Lecter said.

Will’s eyes widened. “Good morning.”

“Have I come at a bad time?”

“No, no,” Will quickly replied. “I just did not expect you.”

Dr. Lecter nodded. “I understand. I do not wish to impose. However, as we are now neighbors, I thought we should become better acquainted. He gestured to the large basket he carried. “I brought breakfast. May I come in?”

Will blinked in astonishment at the word “neighbors”. “You moved into the old house?” he asked, stepping aside for Dr. Lecter to enter. As he passed, Winston let out a low noise, not quite a growl, but certainly not a welcoming sound either. Will silenced him with a “tsk”.

“My tastes can be a little antiquated,” Dr. Lecter remarked. He set the basket on the table by the window. “But it fully suited my needs.” While he unpacked, Will hurried to the kitchen to collect dishes and silverware.

“I feel like this should be the other way around,” he said as Dr. Lecter spooned eggs and sausage onto the plates. “I should have brought you breakfast.”

“Do not worry about it. Perhaps you can do me the honor in the future.” Will detected a note of hope in Dr. Lecter’s voice.

“Yes. Perhaps.” Will took a bite of sausage. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Dr. Lecter poured two cups of coffee.

“If I may say, Professor Graham, you seem tired this morning. Are you well?”

“I had a nightmare. That’s all.”

“I may be able to help with that. Are they frequent?”

Will shrugged. “You could say that. Why?”

“Constable Crawford told me you have a knack for the monsters. The things we read and study sometimes follow us into our dreams. Do the ghosts of history haunt you?”

Will opened his mouth and promptly shut it again. “Some of them are not old enough to belong to history,” he admitted. Shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth, Will chewed until they disintegrated on his tongue.

“I apologize if my questions seem inappropriate,” Dr. Lecter said. He pushed his plate aside. “I simply want to know my new neighbors better.”

“I’m not sure you want to know us better. Most consider us eccentric…at best.”

The sound of descending footsteps interrupted their conversation. “Good morning, Will,” Abigail called halfway down the stairs. “I am—oh.” She halted and smoothed her dress. “I’m sorry. I did not know we had company.”

Will and Dr. Lecter rose from the table. “Abigail, this is our new neighbor, Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter, this is my daughter, Abigail.”

“You moved into the old house?” Abigail asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“I did.” Taking her hand, Dr. Lecter escorted her off the staircase as courteously as a knight would a princess.

“How do you do?”

Abigail’s cheeks flushed pink. “How do you do, Dr. Lecter?”

“Very well, thank you. Would you care to join us?”

Abigail glanced at the table setting. “Thank you for the offer, but Dr. Bloom is expecting me,” she began apologetically.

“Of course,” Dr. Lecter said. “You must keep your appointments.”

“Maybe another time?” She shifted to Will’s side. “I will be back this afternoon.”

Will touched her hand. “Have fun. Be careful.”

“Yes, I know.” She turned to Dr. Lecter. “It was nice meeting you.”

“It was a genuine pleasure meeting you. I hope you have a lovely day.”

Abigail’s eyebrows rose, as if she, like Will, was surprised and perplexed by Dr. Lecter’s friendliness. She smiled broadly, showing off the dimples in her cheeks. “Enjoy your breakfast,” she said and slipped out of the house. Together, Will and Dr. Lecter watched her saunter down the street. Her pale pink and green frock was bright in the early light. She had a slight spring in her step.

“A very charming young woman,” Dr. Lecter remarked. He gazed out the window, a fond, wistful look on his face. “How long have you been her guardian?”

Will did not ask how Dr. Lecter knew Abigail was adopted. Obviously Crawford had talked about more than Will’s scholarly pursuits. “Twelve years,” he said. “She was six years old. I was in the middle of my university studies when—when I adopted her.” Will remembered it so clearly. Mrs. Hobbs gasping as blood spilled from her throat, cut from ear to ear. Hobbs holding little Abigail in his arms, a knife at her neck. Hobbs’s head snapping back as Will’s bullet penetrated his skull. Abigail crying, tears mixing with the blood spilling from the gash on the side of her neck. She could have died; she nearly did.

Without meaning to, Will began to relate the tale. Words poured from his mouth. For a moment, he was not in his house eating breakfast but in the Hobbs’s cabin. The scent of blood hung heavily in the air. He gripped something. Will looked down and instead of a fork, he saw his pistol, recently fired. He dropped it like it was a burning coal. The pistol clattered loudly as it hit the table. The noise startled him, and Will raised his eyes to see all as it should be. Shaking his head, he took a sip of coffee. “I’m sorry. It is not something I talk about very often. I don’t even know how much Abigail remembers.” He picked up his fork and bit into another piece of sausage. “I expect this is not what you had in mind for a breakfast conversation.”

“As I said, I want to know my new neighbors better,” Dr. Lecter told him simply. “To be honest, I find you and Abigail the most charming people I have met in some time.”

Will scoffed. “I think you may be the only one in this town.”

“I have little time for rumors.” Dr. Lecter wiped his fingers on a napkin. “What others say about you means very little to me.”

“Oh,” Will breathed. A small, secret feeling of satisfaction bloomed inside him. Despite himself, he grinned. “And do you have much experience?”

Dr. Lecter paused. He smiled faintly.

“Many years.”

..

Cassandra Boyle, vivacious and wild, lay dead on the rough wooden floor of the small house she shared with her brother. Her arms were stretched out and her head tipped back, like she had spent her last moments gasping for breath. “Or trying to scream,” Will thought, averting his eyes from her pale, naked body.

“Where is her brother?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” Zeller replied. “Some sight to discover after a long night’s work. He was given a sedative, so he is a bit calmer now.” Something crashed in the room above them. “Mostly.”

“He won’t stop raving,” Price said.

“He feels guilty,” Will murmured. “And he is grieving.” Taking a deep breath, he turned his attention back to the corpse. The others stepped back to give him a little space. Will took off his spectacles and closed his eyes.

A golden pendulum swung behind his eyelids. Cassandra Boyle stood up, fully dressed—no—she only wore a chemise and corset. She waltzed through the room, obviously pleased with herself. In her hand, she held a trinket, maybe a watch, easy to overlook but far too expensive for her or her brother to own. Grinning, she slipped it into an old desk drawer. Will watched her from a dark corner. She did not seem to notice his presence, or if she did, she paid him little heed. On silent feet, he crept towards her until, viper quick, he seized her in his arms. She struggled, like all prey struggles, but Will swiftly overpowered her. With infinite gentleness, he tilted her head to one side. The arteries in her neck pulsed violently. Running his tongue along his teeth, Will inhaled deeply and—.

“Something bit her recently.” Miss Katz’s voice jolted Will out of his vision. He blinked, momentarily disoriented.

“What?”

“Here.” She pointed to Cassandra’s neck. Will knelt down. Two red puncture wounds stood out sharply against the alabaster white of Cassandra Boyle’s skin. They were deep, but all traces of blood had ben wiped away.

“There are three other bodies at the morgue with marks like hers,” Price said.

“Three?”

“Mr. Caldwell and Mrs. Vocalson,” Miss Katz counted off. “Both died suddenly in the night too. And the captain of the _Empusa_. Did Crawford tell you about that?” Will nodded. His temples throbbed.

“Could a rat have done this?” Zeller wondered aloud.

“Unlikely,” Price replied. “Unless she had something it really wanted. A rat would have had to be very bold to get so close to her. Most rodents turn tail as soon as a girl spots them and starts screaming.”

“I wouldn’t have said a rat could make punctures like this,” Miss Katz said, bending low to examine Cassandra’s neck more closely.

“Four bodies exhibiting the same symptoms, and three of them were dead within a day.” Will looked up to see Crawford standing in the doorway.

“You think this might be plague?” Will asked.

“It’s not what I think that matters. It is what you think, Will. You know the diseases of the Dark Ages better than anyone.”

Will bit his tongue to keep himself from correcting Crawford about the “Dark Ages”. “It’s not plague. There are no signs of it on her body.”

“What about one of its variations? You told me once there were three types.”

“There are,” Will said. “The most common one, we would know instantly. Its symptoms are hard to miss. The other two types affected the lungs and the blood, respectively.”

“Could either of those have killed these people?”

“No,” Will responded instantly. He paused, looking at the corpse again. “It is possible. I don’t know.”

“Why the uncertainty, Will?”

Will slid his spectacles on. “Because Cassandra Boyle died terrified. She knew something was killing her.”

“She was killed by ‘something’,” Zeller interrupted. “If it was plague, the type that killed so fast, then her death would have come virtually without warning. Small wonder she was scared.”

“This isn’t that,” Will said.

“What is it, then?” Zeller asked. “Do you know anything that could kill this fast coincidentally after a ship sails into harbor? With a dead captain exhibiting the same symptoms?”

“Maybe you should ask a doctor and not a teacher!” Will snapped. The walls pressed in around him, constricting his breath. He had to get out. Heart pounding, he pushed past Price and dashed outside. Crawford followed close behind. For the moment, Will ignored him. He inhaled deeply and let out a bitter laugh.

“It is not plague. It cannot be.”

“What makes you so sure?” Crawford asked.

Will opened his mouth, but he could not answer, not in any way that made sense to a rational man. “Why me?” he asked instead. “Why not a doctor?”

“A doctor can only do so much,” Jack replied. “You know the plague better than anyone in town.”

“But I’ve never actually seen it.” Will shook his head. “The last outbreak of plague here was in 1662. All I can tell you is what I have learned from books and nothing more.”

“Will, the _Empusa_ has the town council worried. I need to tell them something.”

“All I can tell you is that they did not die of plague.”

“Then what killed them?”

“I don’t know!” Will closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he repeated forcing himself to calm down. He stared at his shoes.

“You could…hint, just enough to give the council something to work with, if you want,” he suggested. “Tell them to enforce a curfew. At least it will keep people off the streets.”

Crawford nodded slowly. It was not an ideal solution, but it could work for a little while. “Very well then.” They parted, Crawford to work on his report, Will to the safety of his home.

“Professor Graham,” a new voice called. Will stiffened. His hands balled into fists.

“You should not be here, Miss Lounds.” He kept his tone even.

Fredericka Lounds emerged from her hiding place beside the Boyle’s home. She approached Will gingerly, like one would a stray dog, her persistent smile firmly in place. “I was just taking a stroll, and I heard the most dreadful thing. Three people in our little town died in the night. It is absolutely horrifying.” She glanced at the upstairs window of the house. “Poor Cassandra Boyle and poor Nicholas too. He must be taking it very hard.” She turned back to Will. Her eyes gleamed. “What could have caused such a terrible thing?”

“You will have to talk to someone else about that, Miss Lounds.” Will hastily retreated. She followed, her footsteps swift despite her garish high-heeled boots. She gathered the hem of her voluminous skirts in one hand to match his pace.

“I find it so odd, Professor Graham,” she continued. “Why did Constable Crawford want you to look at Cassandra Boyle’s body? Did something kill her that has not been seen here for hundreds of years?” She paused. “Or is the killer more tangible?”

Will stopped. Biting the inside of his mouth, he counted to ten before he spoke. “Miss Lounds, the town council is going to issue a curfew soon. I suggest you lock yourself in your house, bolt the windows, and wait to see what else they have to say.” He walked away. Miss Lounds remained behind, watching him with keen eyes.

“Crazy Man Graham,” she loudly declared. Will froze.

“What?”

“They call you that because it is the truth.” She pushed a strand of curly red hair back in her bun. “The way you look at history is strange, maybe even demented. I can change that, though. I can talk to someone, who will talk to two people, who will in turn talk to six other people, and so on. Your reputation will be healed.”

She waited. Will said nothing. Her false, expectant smile disgusted him. Without bothering to tip his hat, he left.

The house was quiet and dark when Will returned home, the only light coming from the final rays of sun streaming through the windows. He found Abigail in her room, already in bed, with Winston dutifully beside her. She was embroidering. Will sneaked a peak at her new project. Red birds stood out sharply against the white cloth. Grabbing the chair from her vanity, Will pulled it next to her bed and sat down.

“Hullo,” he said.

“Hullo,” she replied.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Abigail nodded. “I am fine, Will. I am just tired, so I felt like going to bed early.” She fell silent. Her needle stilled.

“I heard about Cassie. What happened?”

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Nicholas can’t be taking it well.”

“No, he isn’t.” Will touched her hair. “I don’t want you to worry about that, though.” A change of subject was in order. “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Will’s concern increased. “When did you last eat?”

“I had a little something around midday.”

Will frowned. “Has anyone said anything to upset you today?”

“What? No.” Abigail shook her head. “It’s nothing like that. I am just tired. Truly.” She leaned over to slide her embroidery and tools into the drawer of her bedside table. Her nightgown’s sleeve slipped away a little, revealing a bandage wrapped around her wrist.

“When did that happen?”

“Oh.” Abigail shrugged. “I went to see Marissa after coming back from Dr. Bloom’s. Dr. Bloom says hello, by the way. Marissa and I were in her mother’s rose garden. One of the thorns scratched me. It is not bad, but it did bleed a little.”

“Do you want me to look at it?”

“Maybe later, Will.” She nestled against her pillows and yawned. Something about her round face and drowsy eyes reminded Will of the times when Abigail was little, and he read her fairy tales until she went to sleep.

“Do you like Dr. Lecter, Will?”

“Why?” He shrugged. “I’m not sure I find him very interesting.”

“Are you sure?” she asked teasingly. “I was just curious. He likes you. He likes you very much.”

For a moment, Will had no idea how to respond to that. “I think he is just polite. What makes you think he likes me?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. I saw the way he looked at you. He seemed to think you are interesting.”

“Dr. Lecter is polite,” Will told her again.

“So you say.” Abigail studied his face carefully. “Have you ever thought about having a family, Will?”

“Where is this coming from?” he wondered.

“You are my family,” he said, adjusting her coverlet.

“I know, but I mean more than me. Have you ever thought about finding someone?”

“A wife, you mean?”

“No.” She scrunched up her nose. “Well, yes and no. Not exactly a wife.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. What would you call it?” She laughed softly. “Maybe you would be the wife.”

Will brushed a piece of hair off her face. “Get some rest, Abigail.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, rolling onto her side. “It would be nice, though. Having a family. Just the four of us.” Her eyes closed.

For the second time in as many days, Will pushed all thoughts of Dr. Lecter out of his mind. He did so reluctantly; Will had liked talking to Dr. Lecter, far more than he thought possible. Their conversation was genuine, not simply words tossed back and forth to keep the dialogue flowing. Dr. Lecter understood him, saw the dark memories of Will’s experiences, and did not flee. Will wanted to see him again, and he did not know how to feel about that. Rising from his chair, Will wandered to the window to pull Abigail’s curtains closed. He lingered there for several minutes, watching as night overtook the day. He sighed heavily.

More people would die. Of that, Will was certain. Yet there was nothing he could do. What good was his knowledge if he could only point out what something wasn’t? It made him want to tear out his hair in frustration and guilt.

Abigail stirred, drawing Will’s attention away from the window. He returned to his chair. Her fingers peeked out from underneath her blanket. Will squeezed them tenderly.

“Everything will be all right,” he whispered.

Will drifted to sleep holding her hand.

..

A single bell tolled solemnly as the pallbearers carried the coffins out of the old church. Despite the number of dead, the funeral itself was small. Only a few mourners dared venture out to pay their respects. Most locked themselves away in their homes, grieving in their own private ways. Will glimpsed Nicholas Boyle, who shot him a dark look before hurrying to walk alongside his sister’s coffin. Lingering at the end of the paltry procession, Will did not follow. He stood in the doorway watching the priest lead the long line of the dead across the town square. They would continue their slow, steady pace until they reached the outskirts of the town and the coffins would be lowered into the earth.

Closing his eyes, Will massaged the bridge of his nose. So many in such a short time. He wondered how long the town would be able to keep up the pretense of funerals and proper burials.

“Bring out your dead,” he whispered.

“Bring out your dead,” Dr. Bloom echoed behind him. She joined him at the doorway.

“You may have taken a risk coming here,” he told her quietly.

“Maybe, but it will be a sad day when no one comes to funerals,” she replied, adjusting the ribbon on her black bonnet. “Why did you come?”

“I thought it would help.”

“And?”

Will shook his head. “Nothing.”

“It will come. Even if it does not, you should not put that kind of pressure on yourself. You are not a doctor.”

“Jack needs me to find an answer.”

“Jack sometimes loses sight of what is important in his quest for peace and order,” she grumbled. “I am sorry. I should not speak like that here. How is Abigail?”

“She is…” Will trailed off, unsure how to describe her condition. “How did she seem when she visited you?”

“She was well. Cheerful. Why?”

“That night, she seemed to come down with something. Not like that,” he added, nodding towards the last coffin as it disappeared down the street. “Since then, she has been listless, tired, and she spends most of the day sleeping.”

Dr. Bloom frowned. “It is odd but not unusual for a girl her age to occasionally feel like that.”

“Yes, I am well aware,” Will interjected. “This is different. I have never seen her like this. She barely eats. She will not get out of bed. I wish I could ask a doctor to examine her, if one would take the time.”

“What about Dr. Lecter? Have you met him yet?” she suggested after a moment’s consideration.

“Twice,” Will replied. “Abigail was somewhat taken with him, I think.” As was he, but Will did not want to tell Dr. Bloom that.

“Ask him.”

Will was not sure. “We barely know each other. Do you think he would agree?”

“It is worth a try,” Dr. Bloom said. “He is very good, and if Abigail likes him, that is half the battle won. At least consider it.”

“Very well,” Will agreed. “Jack said you had recommended Dr. Lecter for Mrs. Crawford. How long have you know him?”

An unseasonably cool breeze wafted through the doorway. Dr. Bloom pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. “We met in Vienna about, oh, it must have been almost ten years ago. I was a student, and he was giving a lecture. I asked some questions afterwards.” She smiled softly. “He said I was one of the most perceptive listeners he had ever spoken with. We started a correspondence after he returned to Vilnius. He was a good mentor. When Mrs. Crawford fell ill, I thought he could help her. Maybe he can help Abigail too.”

Will looked down at the stone floor. “I hope so.”

“Oh Will.” She gently touched his sleeve. “If you ever want to talk, come by the hospital, and I will fix you a cup of tea.” Blinking she realized the implications of her words. “I mean as a friend, not a patient,” she added quickly. “Not that you need to be a patient. I was just…I should stop talking now, I think.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I accept your invitation.” He gave her a faint smile.

“There you are, Dr. Bloom!” Will tensed. His pulse steadily increased as Dr. Chilton made his way across the town square. At the sight of Will, Chilton’s face broke into a large, tooth-filled grin.

“Professor Graham!” he greeted eagerly. “I did not know you were here too. What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you too.”

A twinge of dread flared inside Will. “Dr. Chilton, I—.”

Chilton held up his hand. “No, no, do not worry. I jest. I actually came here for quite a different reason. Although, perhaps not, given the circumstances.” He leaned heavily on his cane. The walk from the hospital must have been taxing.

“Dr. Bloom, I need you to return to the hospital and speak with Abel Gideon. He is convinced he killed Cassandra Boyle.”

“Killed her?” Dr. Bloom asked. “How?”

Chilton stared into the distance like he was a student recalling information for an exam. “He did not go into detail, but it involved slipping out of his cell, following her home, and drinking her blood.”

“Like a vampire?” Will asked.

“He did not use that term, but yes.”

Dr. Bloom picked up her skirts. “I am coming.” She squeezed Will’s wrist. “Do not brood in here too long, Will. It is not good for you. Please keep me informed about Abigail.”

“I will.”

Will did not watch them leave. He turned and walked down the nave to the huge Y-shaped cross in the northern apse. Will approached the plague cross slowly, this monument to devotion, love, grief, and pain. Christ hung lifeless, his arms and legs emaciated. His blackened head slumped to the side, hiding his face from Will. Pieces of skin had sloughed off his feet. Covering his body were dozens of gaping red wounds, leaking blood and staining his frayed white loincloth. “‘O stream of blood, to heaven’s height you cried…’” Will recited so quietly none could hear him. Removing his spectacles, he stared at the carved, bleeding Christ until the sight of it was seared into his eyes.

..

A single candle flame flickered weakly in front of Will. Cautiously, Will stretched out a frozen hand, but the candle floated just beyond his reach. He walked towards it, craving the flame’s light and heat. Strange shadows danced on the walls around him. Beneath his bare feet, rough stone changed to smooth marble. The transition startled him so much that Will looked down. In the weak light, he saw a figure etched in marvelous detail, its hands pressed together in devoted prayer. Will glanced to his left and spied a similar tomb slab. It had words carved in a language Will could not read, but he understood the message well enough. He walked above the dead.

Before him, the tomb slabs rose from the floor, becoming elaborately carved sarcophagi. Will saw lords, knights, and ladies preserved in carved marble. He followed the long line of tombs until his legs ached, until he noticed one far different from the rest. She lay atop a plain slab, arms spread out on either side like a mock crucifixion. She was naked to the waist, her breasts fully exposed, with a piece of cloth draped loosely over her hips. Two holes punctured her neck. Her head was tipped back and her mouth open, as if she had spent her last moments gasping for breath. Or trying to scream. Will touched the effigy and found the marble as soft as flesh with the coolness of the recently dead.

A loud crack rang through the crypt. It shook the walls and sent Will stumbling. Somehow the candle managed to remain aloft, its flame still faintly gleaming. A harsh silence descended. Slowly, the candle began to drift again. Will followed, his heart filled with dread. He moved past more corpses, some covered in flesh, others rotting. Still others were nothing but bones. The candle floated until Will came to a long hallway. In the center, a sarcophagus rested in front of a plain wall. Its lid had been broken in half. And in front…

In front was a stag. Will thought it was a stag. Its pelt was midnight black, blending into the darkness surrounding them. But instead of fur, thick feathers covered the creature. The stag snorted, pawed the ground, and pointed its antlered head at Will. Will tensed. He waited for the inevitable charge, but the creature remained motionless, inviting Will to come near. Hands trembling, Will touched the feathers. They were soft. His breath caught in his throat at the creature’s terrible beauty. Gently, Will ran his fingers down the stag’s snout. The feathers grew cool and hard until they were like iron. A metal ring hung from the stag’s mouth. Will gripped it and shivered.

He awoke to darkness and freezing cold. The stag remained in front of him, smaller now and completely harmless, its head affixed to the door of a house Will did not know. He looked around frantically trying to remember how he had come to this place. A gust of wind swept past. It cut through Will’s shirt and trousers. His bare feet were numb and dirty.

In one of the windows, he spied a light. Will’s eyes widened. Even in the dark, he should have recognized the tall windows and skilled masonry of the old mansion. He must have been more disoriented than he initially thought. The stag doorknocker was new, probably added during the restorations on Dr. Lecter’s orders. Will stared at it, deliberating what he should do. If he were a decent person, he would make his way home and leave the house undisturbed. But the light in the window was so warm and the prospect of seeing Dr. Lecter again so inviting that Will could not resist. Wrapping his fingers around the ring, he struck the door once, twice, three times.

A moment passed, then another. Will suppressed the urge to turn heel and run.

The door opened. Dr. Lecter stood silhouetted in the golden light of his entry hall.

“Professor Graham, this is a surprise.” He took in Will’s appearance, his thin shirt and trousers, his bare feet, his shivering, and immediately motioned for him to enter. “Please come in.”

“Thank you.” Will vigorously rubbed his arms as he crossed the threshold into the house. He caught sight of an antique clock hanging on the wall, its hands indicating that it was nearly three in the morning. “I’m sorry,” Will said. “I did not realize it was so late. I did not mean to get you up.”

“Never apologize for coming to me,” Dr. Lecter said. He closed the door behind Will, shutting out the wind’s wrath. “I have been known to keep very late hours.” He gestured for Will to follow him. “Please come near the fire. You must be chilled to the bone.”

“I feel like it,” Will admitted. As Dr. Lecter led him into the parlor, Will wondered if he regretted letting Will’s dirty feet tread across his expensive floors and rugs. As if sensing his thoughts, Dr. Lecter turned and gave Will a welcoming smile. He guided Will to a leather winged-back chair positioned in front of a blazing fireplace and indicated that Will should make himself comfortable. Will sank into the chair, exhaustion washing over him. Carefully, Dr. Lecter draped a blanket around Will’s shoulders. Will pulled it tightly around himself, suddenly craving its comfort and security.

“I must have sleepwalked here,” he said quietly.

Dr. Lecter moved to a table covered with crystal decanters of varying sizes. “First, let us concentrate on getting you warm. Would you like something to drink?”

“Whiskey, if you have it?”

“Of course.” Will mumbled his thanks as Dr. Lecter handed him the glass. He sat in the chair opposite Will’s with a drink of his own. Will watched Dr. Lecter sniff the red wine in his glass and take a small sip. He swallowed slowly, relishing the taste.

“Sleepwalking is often a manifestation of stress,” Dr. Lecter began. “Is it this plague that so disturbs you?”

“It’s not plague,” Will immediately retorted. “I mean,” he continued, “it’s not _the_ plague.”

“You are certain.”

Will shrugged. “Not at first but it is obvious the symptoms are nothing like what plague victims experienced. This is something very different.” Will knocked back a mouthful of whiskey. He enjoyed the familiar burn as it slid down his throat. “Try telling that to the town council, though.”

“They are convinced?”

“The town suffered various plague outbreaks for over three hundred years. That kind of fear does not go away easily.”

Dr. Lecter took another sip of wine. “So while everyone is trying to protect themselves from the plague, you seek the real killer. Have you any hypotheses?”

“Not yet. So far, my research has been inconclusive.” He shook his head. “I have even been going to the Old Church.”

Dr. Lecter raised a pale eyebrow. “To pray?”

“To think,” Will clarified. “There is a cross, a forked plague cross, there. It was carved during one of the first outbreaks. Sometimes, I stand there to look at it. Seeing it helps put me in the mindset of the people then. I usually go when I am writing. Or when I need to clear my head.”

“Like an artist looks to the works of the Old Masters for inspiration.”

Inspiration? That was a funny way to phrase it. He pulled the blanket a tighter around himself. “I think you picked a terrible time to move here.”

Dr. Lecter considered his words. “I have been known in the past to have poor timing. I do not regret it, though.”

“You might later.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it.” Dr. Lecter regarded the dark depths of his wine. “This town has certain treasures that I wish to know better.” He raised his eyes, and Will could no longer insist that Dr. Lecter’s interest was purely polite. The fire reflected in his gaze, warm and golden and devouring. Will stared back, letting himself be consumed. Heat stirred deep in his belly. In the dim light, he saw traces of wine clinging to Dr. Lecter’s lips. Will wanted—he wanted—he was not sure what he wanted. To flee. To remain frozen with desire. To lean forward until his lips brushed against Dr. Lecter’s. His fingers twitched with nervous energy as his mind and body urged him to do something. _Anything_.

Dr. Lecter spoke first, breaking the heady spell that hung between them. “Forgive me for asking, Professor Graham, but I sense something else troubles your mind.”

How did he manage to be so perceptive? “Abigail is sick.” Taking a deep breath, he described her symptoms, her listlessness, her lack of appetite, her fatigue. “Nothing I have done seems to help. I do not know what to do.”

“Would you like for me to examine her?” Will’s shoulders sagged with relief. He nodded.

“It sounds like exhaustion,” Dr. Lecter said. “It is not serious, but it does need to be treated carefully. Shall I visit tomorrow afternoon?”

“Thank you,” Will said. “You come highly recommended from Dr. Bloom.”

A corner of Dr. Lecter’s lips quirked up. “She was a good student, and we have had an interesting correspondence over the years.” He took another sip of wine.

“I must confess something to you, Professor Graham. I was aware of you before I arrived here. I have read a few of your books.”

Will blinked several times in surprise. “My books?” He had thought they languished in obscurity, untouched, unseen for fear of the demons contained within. “How on earth did my scribbles get to Vilnius?”

“The good Dr. Bloom again,” Dr. Lecter replied. “She had told me in a letter some years ago that a new professor had caused a great deal of controversy with his biography of Gilles de Rais. My curiosity got the better of me, and I requested that she send me a copy. It is a magnificent work.”

Will cradled his whiskey glass in both hands. “It was difficult to write.” The first time he read the transcript of Gilles’ trial, Will had run from the library shaken with terror, not from the description of horrible crimes but from how easily Will had understood the condemned man. He could smell the coppery stench of blood, hear the crackling fire, and taste the drugged wine as vividly as if he stood in that bedchamber four hundred years ago. Three days passed before he had gathered up his courage to return to the manuscript, driven by a need to comprehend and explain.

“You slipped inside his head,” Dr. Lecter said.

“Yes,” Will sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“For a young scholar, it must have been unlike anything you had ever experienced.”

“I was terrified.”

“And yet, you went back.”

Will inhaled sharply. “I’m a scholar. I learn and I teach. Who else will do it if I do not?” He frowned inquisitively at Dr. Lecter. “Why the interest in Gilles de Rais?”

Dr. Lecter was silent for a long time. “In their lives, humans strive for great good or terrible evil. Few have the opportunity for both.”

“The irony of one of Jeanne d’Arc’s comrades committing heresy and murder,” Will commented quietly. Staring into his whiskey, he thought he saw a trace of red in the amber liquid. Perhaps it came from the light of the fire, or his exhausted eyes had started playing tricked on him. Quickly, Will tipped his drink back and finished it with a large gulp.

He nearly laughed, unsure whether to be flattered or disappointed. “Did you move here just because you like my books?”

Dr. Lecter shook his head. “The fact that you live in the same town as Constable Crawford was an added factor in my decision. However, it came more from admiring the author rather than the books themselves.” He glanced at the fire, a wistful look in his eyes. “I think our paths still would have crossed, even if you had never written a word or I never picked up one of your books.” He approached Will’s chair.

“Would you like another, Professor Graham?” Will declined. Gently, Dr. Lecter took the glass from his hands. Their fingers brushed against each other, sending a jolt of excitement through Will. He looked up and met Dr. Lecter’s dark eyes, eagerly drinking in the adoration, love, and desire. He drew those emotions inside himself, letting them sweep through his veins and ignite his heart. Slowly, he rose. The blanket slipped from his shoulders and fell to the floor. They stood so close yet did not touch.

“Will,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

Dr. Lecter’s smile was radiant. “Hannibal.”

A tender, easy silence lay between them. Neither moved nor spoke. No word or gesture could compliment the feeling of utter joy and completeness he and Hannibal shared at that moment. Perhaps Hannibal was right. Perhaps they were fated to meet, although Will usually did not believe in such things. But now, as he stood with Hannibal before the blazing heat of the fire, Will wished it were so.

..

“You do not have a fever,” Hannibal commented as he touched Abigail’s cheeks with the back of his hand. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” she said. “The blankets help.” Three lay spread out on top of her. She looked tiny and fragile underneath so many quilts, like a porcelain doll wrapped in a giant sheet.

Hannibal pulled her vanity chair beside the bed and sat down. “Have you experienced any nausea?”

Abigail briefly glanced at Will. “Some,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s mostly that I do not have an appetite. I get dizzy too, but I can still read lying down.”

“I fixed her some broth this morning,” Will added. “She was able to keep that down.”

Hannibal nodded. “Have you had any headaches or sensitivity to light?”

“None,” she said. “I am just very tired.”

“Then we must work hard to make you feel well soon,” he told her warmly. Will watched as Hannibal set his black medical bag on the bed. It opened with a sharp snap. Inside, Will glimpsed scalpels, small vials, an artificial leech, and a sophisticated stethoscope. They reflected the sunlight, sharp and clinical. Will’s heart lurched at the sight. Surely Hannibal did not need all those to care for Abigail? Immediately, Will pushed the invasive thought out of his head; doctors carried many instruments. Hannibal was no different.

Hannibal caught Will’s eye and smiled reassuringly. “Would you mind giving us a little privacy for a few minutes, Will? I need to examine Abigail more closely.”

“Please Will?” Abigail asked, her voice softly insistent.

Will understood. There was only so much Hannibal could do under the scrutinizing eye of an overprotective, hovering parent. “Of course. I will be downstairs if you need anything.” He whistled for Winston to follow, but Winston remained stationed beside Abigail. “Come on, Winston,” he ordered. Reluctantly, Winston rose and padded after Will.

“She will be all right,” Will told himself as they descended the stairs. Of course Abigail would be all right. She was a strong girl, and Hannibal was a skilled doctor. All she needed was rest and care. Silently, Will berated himself for not recognizing that Abigail was exhausted. Even if she had tried to hide her symptoms, Will had always been attuned to her emotions and health. How could he not have seen?

Winston abruptly stopped. His ears perked up, and he let out a low growl. Will rested a hand on Winston’s fur to steady him. The study door was open, just a sliver, but certainly not the way Will had left it. “Stay here,” he commanded and crept down the remaining stairs.

Drawing closer, he heard the sound of rustling papers. Will rested his hand against the door, counting the seconds in his head, before he shoved it open with a loud bang. Miss Lounds jumped, scattering papers in a flurry to the floor. They stared at each other, she defiant, he desperately fighting the urge to throw her out of the room. Her eyes were wide with surprise, but they held no shame. Several minutes passed before either said a word.

“The front door was unlocked,” Miss Lounds spoke first. “I guessed your library would be open.”

“I should have you arrested for breaking and entering.”

“You could, but I did not break anything,” she replied, feigning innocence. “And the police are dead. Or if they are not, they will be soon.” She grinned. “What a time to be a criminal. It gives new meaning to the statement, ‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die’.”

Will wished he had not left his spectacles upstairs. “Why did you come here?”

“I think you know what is killing these people.”

“I don’t.”

“By your books, I’d say you have the means to find out. There were so many nasty diseases during the ‘Dark Ages’, and you know all about them. So,” she tossed a piece of paper covered with his notes onto the desk, “what is it?”

Will frowned. “You come into my house and root through my things just to discover if I have figured out what this disease is?”

“You said this was not the medieval plague.” She stepped close to him. “If it isn’t, then you must have some idea what it is. What made you so opposed to everything the evidence suggested?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asked, focusing on the long, corkscrew curls bursting from her head. “For gossip? Your next novel?”

Miss Lounds smiled sardonically. “Hardly. Disease makes very dull reading. Something physical, on the other hand, is far more intriguing.”

Disgust coursed through Will. “Physical? What do you mean?”

“Abel Gideon said he attacked Cassandra Boyle and drank all her blood.”

Will wondered where Miss Lounds acquired her information. “Abel Gideon is insane.”

“Perhaps there is some meaning in his madness.”

“Then I suggest you take that up with Dr. Chilton.” Will could abide her presence no longer. “But considering the state the town is in, the best and smartest thing for you to do is go home.”

“Is that a threat?” Her eyes glinted dangerously. Will took a deep breath, trying to contain his temper.

“It is a fact,” he said in a forced, even tone. “You took a risk coming here.”

“I still hear threats.”

“Leave.”

She marched out, her head held high. “Gideon is not the only one who is insane,” she remarked in a pleasant tone.

She left a book, not one of his, open in the middle of his desk. Against his better judgment, Will picked it up. The marked page read, “Of vampires and bloodsuckers. Of corpses which devour their own flesh. Of incubuses and succubuses. Of the living dead who follow strangers into the night and attack them.” Will felt like throwing the book into the fireplace, but he continued to read.

“Of these, none is more terrifying than the creature those in the East call Nosferatu. The undead. This unholy creature lives in sinister caves, tombs, and coffins, which are filled with cursed dirt from the fields of the Black Death. Like a shadow, he has no reflection. Like a bat, he wafts into dark bedrooms. He goes through walls and closed doors as if they never existed. Masquerading as a black wolf, he hunts his fleeing victims. At night, this same Nosferatu digs his big claws into his victims and suckles himself on the hellish elixir of their blood. Beware that his shadow does not engulf you like a demonic nightmare. Abandon all hope, you who cross his path.”

Will snapped the book closed. Darting out of the study, he intercepted Miss Lounds before she walked out the door. “You left this.” He pushed the book into her gloved hands. “You have too much imagination, Miss Lounds.”

She raised an eyebrow. “ _I_ have too much imagination, Professor Graham? Let me see. What was it you had written?” Her mouth pressed into a grimace as she pulled a quote from memory. “Oh yes, I remember. ‘Gilles de Rais waited until the child quieted. With each passing second, anticipation grew within him. The child, pacified for now, suspected nothing. Slowly, Gilles drew his _braquemard_ and pressed it to the boy’s neck. Looking into the child’s eyes, he drank in the terror. To him, it was fresher and more delicious than the best wine. The blade sliced through bone and sinew. The head dropped onto the bed. Laying the corpse onto the sheets with infinite tenderness, Gilles took his knife and cut open the still-warm skin. Inside the boy’s chest were the organs that had given him life. Gilles found them beautiful, these useless mounds of flesh. He admired them and his skill in revealing them to the open air. This was his design’.” She slipped the book into her beaded purse. “Didn’t the university initially refuse to publish your biography of Gilles de Rais?”

Rage clouded Will’s vision. “Get out,” he snarled. “Get out of my house!”

“Will?” Hannibal swiftly descended the stairs. “I thought I heard voices,” he said, moving close to Will’s side. He scrutinized Miss Lounds with a cool, displeased eye. “Miss Lounds, this is unexpected. Is there a specific reason you have come here?”

To her credit, Miss Lounds looked a little embarrassed. She opened her mouth and closed it again. “Not terribly specific, no.”

“Then I suggest you be on your way.”

Her gaze flicked between Hannibal and Will. “Yes, yes. Very well. Good day, Professor Graham. Dr. Lecter.” She paused before exiting the house. “I hope Abigail is better soon,” she added sincerely.

The latch on the door slid shut with a soft click. They were alone.

Will’s head dropped onto his chest as all the tension coiled deep in his belly gradually dissipated. He felt hollow and limp. He kept his eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the quizzical worried expression he knew was on Hannibal’s face. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, rubbing his eyes hard. “She brings out the worst in me, and she knows it.”

“There is no need to apologize. I could see her presence was distressing you,” Hannibal said. Will almost smiled. What a discrete understatement.

“Have you two met?” Risking a glance up, he saw Hannibal staring at the door with a dark look in his eyes.

“Not formally but I have seen her lurking outside my house on a couple of occasions. She is very impertinent.”

“Agreed.” To any other writer, the notoriety and controversy over his first book would be welcome. Controversy meant book sells and money and discussion. But it was not like that for Will. The subject matter was too gruesome, too horrifying, and Will had gotten too close. He had tied his name to Gilles de Rais. Even those who had not read the book skirted skittishly around him, as if he _was_ Gilles, waiting to commit unspeakable crimes against their children. _Obscene freak_ , they thought, although they never voiced this aloud. Will could see the disgust and fear on their faces, hear it in their voices. And Fredericka Lounds reveled in it, calling him insane for writing about a monster when she created ghouls and ghosts of her own. One day, he was going to lose his temper in a spectacular way. Will did not know what he would do when that happened, but he was certain Miss Lounds would never let him forget. Novelists had a talent for preserving past grievances in ink. Will was just grateful Hannibal was with him this time. “Thank you for intervening.”

Will crossed his arms. “How is Abigail?”

Hannibal turned towards him, his expression softer. “She is sleeping now. It is exhaustion, as I suspected. However, I believe with special care, she will recover.” He rested a hand on Will’s shoulder. Will’s heavy muscles relaxed somewhat underneath the press of Hannibal cool fingers.

“Come, I brought lunch.” There was a playful note in his voice. Hannibal’s hand slid away as he walked to the kitchen, but Will did not follow. He still felt drained and weary, his body stiff, and his eyelids threatened to stick together every time he blinked. Worries buzzed through his head, of Abigail’s illness and this strange plague. Could there be some truth in what Miss Lounds implied? That he had the answer but refused to see it? Will rubbed his dry, grainy eyes again.

“Will, I am doing everything in my power to help Abigail.” Hannibal’s voice stirred Will out of his reverie. “You need to eat something.”

“All right,” he conceded.

Together, they headed to the kitchen. Will stopped at the doorway while Hannibal went straight to the basket placed in the center of the simple wooden table. Knives, forks, pans, and plates had already been arranged for his convenience. Leaning against the pie safe, Will watched admiringly as Hannibal took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He grinned as Hannibal tied an apron around his waist. He had truly come prepared.

“I thought something light would be best,” Hannibal explained. He removed the cloth covering the basket and began taking out ingredients. “Roast chicken breast with fried pancetta, tomatoes, arugula, and mint, dressed with a little balsamic vinegar and olive oil.”

“It sounds delicious,” Will said. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

“My uncle’s chef taught me many years ago.” Hannibal did not look up from the chicken he was slicing. “I spent a great deal of time in the kitchens as a young man.”

Will wondered how the size of those kitchens compared to his whole house. “Can I help?”

“As much as I would like to say yes, I think for now I would be more content for you to watch me.” Hannibal paused, deliberating over his words. “Your kitchen is very small, Will.”

Will grinned wryly. “You noticed.” The two shared a quiet little chuckle. The kitchen served its purpose for him and Abigail, but Will had to admit it was crowded when both of them cooked together.

“Have you ever thought about acquiring something larger for you and Abigail?”

“Occasionally, but it never seems like the right time.” He wanted a house on a lake or a beach where Abigail could have plenty of space, and they could adopt another dog or two. Somewhere Will could research and write in peace. Somewhere so isolated they would never have to worry about the neighbors’ whispers. “I know Abigail would appreciate the extra room.”

Hannibal’s hands lingered over the meat. “Perhaps the right time will come soon.” Will’s eyes widened as he caught the implication of Hannibal’s words. The idea was almost incomprehensible, too much like a dream, and so far beyond anything Will had imagined for himself.

He wanted it.

“I—,” he started and trailed off, unsure of what to say or how to proceed. “It will,” he replied, and the joy on Hannibal’s face was brighter than the rays of afternoon light streaming through the window. Will stepped forward, his hips brushing against the table. Vignettes of different scenarios, all with the same outcome, played out in his mind and made Will blush. They were almost comical, these romantic trysts over lettuce and olive oil. So what if they were? Will did not care, and he doubted Hannibal did either. Summoning his courage, Will leaned forward and closed his eyes. He felt Hannibal draw near.

A loud knock broke into their intimacy. Will ducked his head, narrowing avoiding knocking his forehead into Hannibal’s nose. He groaned in frustration. Hannibal’s eyes fluttered open, a bemused smile on his face that Will could not help but reflect. For a moment, Will wanted to ignore their unwelcome visitor and proceed with Hannibal without care or worry. To his chagrin, the loud knock came again, unwilling to give them the privacy their delicate dance required.

“I don’t want to answer the door.”

“It would be rude not to,” Hannibal said. Reluctantly, they parted.

Winston sat waiting for him, his tail thumping excitedly. Raising an eyebrow, Will gently shooed him away. He opened the door. Marissa Schurr stood on the stoop, a bouquet of brightly colored flowers in her hands. Disappointment flashed across her face, but she managed to hide it quickly under a kind smile. She thrust the bouquet into Will’s hands.

“These are for Abigail,” she announced. “I heard she was sick. How is she? Can I see her? If it’s not, you know, the plague.”

Swallowing back a cough, Will sorted through her barrage of questions. “She is asleep. Maybe another time. She does not have the plague. I will tell her you brought these by.”

“Oh.” Eyes narrowed, Marissa scrutinized the distance to Abigail’s window but decided against any attempts to rouse her by throwing pebbles. “Is what she has very serious?”

“We have a doctor. She will be better soon.”

“Good. Good. I was wondering how long she had been sick. It’s been ages since we’ve seen each other.”

Will frowned. “But I thought—I thought she had visited you the day Cassandra Boyle was found.”

“No,” she replied, brushing a lock of her dark brown hair out of her face. “We had plans, but they fell through. Abigail never showed up.” She shrugged. “I guess I know why now.”

“Marissa!” Mrs. Schurr raced towards them, her shawl streaming behind her. “Come home!”

Marissa rolled her eyes. “In a moment. I am talking with Professor Graham.”

Mrs. Schurr placed her hands on her hips and shot Will a dark look. “Come home,” she repeated.

“No.”

In the corner of his eye, Will saw Hannibal emerge from the kitchen and begin setting the table.

“Marissa!”

Marissa whirled around. “Can you stop being such a bitch?” Her voice sliced through the air. Hannibal stilled. Mrs. Schurr’s face turned white. The space surrounding the women crackled with tension, setting Will’s teeth on edge. Sensing she had gone too far, Marissa’s eyes widened, but she did not move. Mother and daughter stared at each other in a vicious, silent power struggle. Finally, Marissa bit her lip and stepped forward. Mrs. Schurr grabbed her elbow and pulled her away from the house. Marissa’s shoe caught on a loose cobblestone. She nearly tripped but managed to keep her footing, barely listening to her mother’s furtive, infuriated scolding.

“Tell Abigail I said hello!” Marissa called to Will before she and her mother disappeared around a corner.

Will bolted the door. He wanted to close the curtains too, block out the world completely, but he resisted. The two women’s voices echoed loudly inside his skull, and the stress from his encounter with Miss Lounds returned with a vengeance. He felt a headache forming. He leaned his head against the thick wood, forcing himself to take long, deep breaths.

Hannibal moved to his side. Concern marked his features. “Will, drink this.” He pressed a cool glass of white wine in Will’s hand. Will raised the glass to his lips and swallowed a large mouthful, caring nothing for societal rules about sipping and savoring. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, steadying him. The pain in his head eased somewhat.

“Was that young woman a friend of Abigail’s?” Hannibal asked.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? Yes, they’re friends.”

Hannibal looked displeased. “Her tongue is very sharp.”

“Thankfully Abigail has not picked that up.” Will swirled his half-empty wine glass. How the two spoke in private was no business of Will’s, and he refused to pry. He was only grateful Abigail never used such words during any of their rare arguments.

The thought of Abigail made Will glance at the bouquet in his other hand. He pondered Marissa’s words about missing Abigail. If Abigail was not with her friend, then what had she been doing that afternoon? Why had she lied? Will was not angry with her, just perplexed. It would not be the first time Abigail had tried to hide something from him, but it would be the first time the matter was so seemingly mundane.

Will sighed. “If it’s all right with you, let’s have no more visitors today.”

Hannibal laughed. “That is perfectly agreeable to me.” He took the bouquet from Will and set it on the table. Will would put it in a vase later.

“Lunch is ready. Shall we enjoy it?” He reached over and traced the length of Will’s index finger with his own. Up and down it went until Will opened his hand, exposing the flesh of his palm. Hannibal took the invitation. His fingers caressed Will’s skin, light and feather-soft and filling Will with need and desire. Boldness possessing him once more, he trapped Hannibal’s hand in his. It was not a kiss, but it was enough for now. Will smiled at their entwined fingers.

“Yes.”

..

“Are you sure?” Miss Katz asked. Will nodded. Without hesitation, Miss Katz pulled back the sheet covering Marissa Schurr’s body. Will swallowed hard against the wave of nausea rising inside him at the sight of her gray corpse. Marissa was cold and silent. So unlike the defiant, mischievous elf who had stuck close to Abigail for years. Death had completely stripped away her identity, any shred of personality.

“She was found this morning outside the Old Church,” Miss Katz explained. “She had collapsed onto the steps.”

“She had been dead about four or five hours when the priest stumbled across her,” Price said.

“A little too late for last rites,” Zeller commented.

“There is a provision for that,” Price told him.

“I did not know the Schurrs were particularly religious,” Miss Katz said.

“They aren’t,” Will replied. “Weren’t,” he corrected himself.

What was he going to tell Abigail? How could he tell Abigail?

Staring at Marissa’s body, Will tried to imagine what the priest had seen. Something about this troubled him. He could not understand why Marissa had gone to the church so late. She was never the type to contritely seek penance and certainly not in the middle of the night. The Marissa Will had known would just as soon run through mud puddles in her best petticoat than attend Sunday services.

“How was she found?” he asked.

“She was lying face down on the steps with her arms stretched out on either side,” Zeller said.

“Like a penitent,” Will whispered. The memory of Cassandra Boyle’s body flashed in his mind. “Was she dressed?”

“No, she was only wearing her chemise and corset.”

Will frowned. The situation was too bizarre, too artificial. It was the type of poetic irony that rarely happened in real life. If Marissa were dying, she would not have run to the church in her underclothes and flung herself on the steps. Nor would her mother have allowed her to leave the house in such a state.

Will suddenly felt very cold. “She was not alone when she died.”

“You mean someone positioned her like that and then left her?” Miss Katz asked incredulously. “Why?”

“He was making a statement.”

Stepping closer to the table, Will closed his eyes. In the darkness, Marissa and Cassandra stood before him. They were so similar; why had he not noticed before? Same height, same weight, same eye color. Same ungrateful insolence and vulgarity. He walked towards them, feeling his disdain grow stronger with every step. They watched him with sharp eyes. Such rude little pigs. He only had need for one right now. Dismissively, he waved his hand, and Cassandra dropped to the ground, bleeding from the neck. With the other, he beckoned Marissa to him. Will smiled, delighted with his own cleverness. He pulled her close and wrapped a hand around her throat. Blood pumped hot, fresh, and full of life beneath his fingers.

“I lead Marissa Schurr through the town. She is going to her death, yet she does not struggle. I have some influence over her mind that makes her come willingly.” Will envisaged guiding her up the steps of the Old Church. “I relax for a moment and let clarity return to her eyes. She fights.” Will gripped her body tightly and covered her mouth. His hand muffled her furious cries. Tipping her head to one side, Will bit her neck. Blood rushed into his mouth. Will drank it all. Marissa’s flailing slowed into faint trembling before she went limp. Will licked the wound clean, catching the last drops.

“I lay her face down and arrange her limbs in a familiar position. It is a sight my audience knows well.” Here Marissa would remain, seeking the penance she never sought when she was alive. She never knew how fortunate she was, always taking her blessings for granted. “This is my design.”

Will’s eyes snapped open. Had his mind finally decided to rebel against him? Marissa had not been alone when she died; that much was obvious. That her death was remarkably similar to Cassandra Boyle’s was also clear. But Will had envisioned a murder. If Marissa was murdered, then it was a logical conclusion that Cassandra had been murdered too. And if Cassandra had been murdered, then did it also logically follow that all the other “plague” victims had been murdered too? “It’s impossible,” he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of the twisted fantasy he had seen. How could one man commit so much crime, and in the way Will had imagined?

“What is?” Miss Katz asked.

Will forced himself to think clearly. “Did you find anything unusual with her body?”

The three glanced at each other. “Actually yes,” Miss Katz replied. “She is missing a lot of blood.”

A phantom coppery taste lingered on Will’s tongue. “Explain?”

“When someone dies, all the blood settles at the lowest point of gravity. Usually people die on their backs, so all the blood settles there,” Price said.

“It turns the skin purplish-red, as if the back had a massive bruise,” Zeller added.

“Except Marissa Schurr was lying on her face after she died, so all the blood should have pooled there.” Miss Katz pointed to the slight discoloration along Marissa’s head, neck, and shoulders. “There should be a lot more, but there is only a little blood here. Certainly not enough for a full-grown, healthy young woman. It’s like she was drained.”

“She was drained,” Will thought, but he said nothing.

“But there is no disease that just makes blood disappear from inside the body, so the question is how did she end up like this,” Zeller continued.

“Exactly.” Price pulled out a small notebook. “Since we noticed it on Marissa Schurr this morning, we looked and found similar evidence of blood loss on James Gray, Meryl Nimerfro, and Sheldon Isley. All have the standard puncture marks on their necks, wrists, or elbows that resemble bites.”

“The captain of the _Empusa_ too,” Miss Katz said. “It was hard to tell because he had been dead for a while, but he was definitely missing blood.”

“It’s almost as if we’re dealing with a vampire here,” Price mused.

“Except vampires are nothing more than superstition,” Zeller said, crossing his arms.

“As is the _alp_ ,” Price said. He counted on his fingers. “And the _nachzehrer_ , the revenant, _draugr_ , _vjesci_ , and estrie. Not to mention incubi and succubi. And those are just creatures from European tradition. Asia and the Americas have a lot more.”

Zeller shook his head. “I should never have given you that folklore book for your birthday.” Price nudged him with his elbow. Miss Katz rolled her eyes at the two of them, a bemused smirk on her face.

“He is not a vampire in the literal sense,” Will spoke up. “He is a predator. He looks normal, acts normal, but he considers himself above and apart from humanity. Most people don’t deserve the life in their veins, so he takes it from them.

“Wait.” Zeller stared at him. “ _He_? Are you saying that all this,” he gestured to the covered corpses, “is the result of _one man_?”

“Yes.”

“If one man is doing this, what happens to the blood?” Miss Katz asked.

“I don’t know,” Will lied. He could not believe what he was saying, yet he could not ignore what he had seen. “The blood is important somehow.”

“Maybe that’s why he positioned Marissa Schurr in front of the Old Church. It does have that huge crucified Christ,” Price suggested. “Body and blood.”

Zeller slammed his hand on the table. “Can you hear yourselves for a moment? You’re letting paranoia and suspicion run away with you. You were right, Will. This is not plague. Congratulations. But saying that one man is causing this is not only bizarre, it is dangerous. Are you going to tell Jack? What’s he going to say? If this idea gets spread through town, there will be a witch-hunt. People will panic and go after anyone odd or suspicious.” He pointed at Will. “They might even go after you.”

“Zeller…” Miss Katz began.

“What? It’s the truth. He can’t just go to Jack and say, ‘This isn’t a natural disease. It’s a man acting like a supernatural creature of the night.’” He turned to Will. “If you did something like that, Jack would slam the door in your face. You will need proof, not unexplained leaps of logic.”

Zeller had a point. All these suspicions could just be in his head, the result of stress, worry, and an accidental glance into one of Miss Lounds’s books. Will knew he had struck upon something, though, but he needed evidence. A nigh impossible task. This killer moved like a shadow, a ghost, unheard, unseen by everyone.

Almost everyone.

Will thought back to Chilton’s words the day of the first funeral. Gideon claimed he had killed Cassandra, but that was impossible. Gideon was safe behind bars. He was insane.

What had he seen? What did he know?

Grabbing his coat, Will dashed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Zeller asked.

“The asylum.”

“Wait!”

Will ignored him.

..

Dr. Bloom’s shoes tapped lightly against the stone floor as she led Will past the cells. Neither spoke. Will kept his eyes lowered, trying to avoid the questioning glances Dr. Bloom continuously directed at him. He would not satisfy her curiosity. If he told her exactly why he had come, Will feared she would look at him with sympathetic eyes and ask if he had been getting enough rest. Will did not need her concern now.

“Bloom! Bloom!” one of the patients screamed, his voice worn and rough. Will accidentally glimpsed the patient’s face through the barred window of the cell door. He saw anger and desperation there, and a deep, devouring craving for the woman beside him. Will shuddered. He could so easily be on the other side of those bars, locked away from the world and subject to the whims and prods of Chilton.

“Will?” Dr. Bloom’s voice was barely audible above the patient’s shouts. She smiled softly at Will. “It is a little further on. Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Will admitted.

“You need not be.” They continued at a clipped, even pace. “Gideon has always been a model patient.”

She paused. “Are you sure you cannot tell me what this is about?”

“If I did, you would not believe me.” Faint disappointment crossed her face, but she said nothing more.

Dr. Abel Gideon’s cell was the last on the left. A guard languidly leaned against it. At the sight of Dr. Bloom and Will, a sly smile crossed his lips. He pushed himself off the wall, his movements slow and easy, like a cat waking from a nap.

“Dr. Bloom,” he greeted.

“Mr. Brown.” Immediately, Brown pulled a key off the ring hanging from his disheveled uniform.

Dr. Bloom touched Will’s wrist. “You will be fine,” she assured him. “Once you’re finished, why don’t you come talk to me? It is not good to keep things bottled up inside you, Will.” Giving him one last comforting smile, she left. As she walked away, Brown slid close to him. Will felt Brown’s keen eyes on the side of his face. He stared at Will like he was a particularly fascinating object of nature.

“He will not hurt you, Professor Graham. I made sure of that. Are you ready?”

Will bit the inside of his jaw. “Yes.” Brown unlocked the cell and pushed the heavy door open. He ushered Will inside.

“Would you like a chair, Professor Graham?”

Will focused on the figure in the corner of the tiny room. “No thank you.”

Brown’s keys rattled. “I would give you the regular spiel, but you see that is unnecessary. Knock on the door when you’re finished. If you need anything, let me know. I will be right outside.” The cell door closed and locked with a metallic clang that echoed off the brick walls. Will took a deep breath. He and Gideon were alone.

Gideon sat cross-legged on his thin cot. A straightjacket bound his arms tightly around his body. Despite his shabby trousers, Gideon’s hair and beard were neatly trimmed. He quirked an eyebrow at Will.

“Professor Graham,” he said, smirking like he had discovered a delicious secret, “I never thought I would see you here willingly.”

Will adjusted his spectacles. “Good afternoon, Dr. Gideon.”

“So cordial. That’s a change.”

Gideon nodded at the door. “He is enamored with you, you know.”

“What?”

Gideon huffed. “Our Mr. Brown. Do not tell me you have not noticed.”

Will had not. The idea unsettled him. There was nothing wrong with Brown per se, but he always had a disquieting gleam in his eye regarding Will. Will had thought it stemmed from a desire to put him in a cage, but perhaps Brown wanted to possess him in a different way. Ignoring the uncomfortable chill racing up his spine, Will cleared his throat. “I think that is neither here nor there, Doctor.”

Gideon shrugged. “Whatever you say, Professor Graham. Now to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Surely this is not a simple social call.”

“It is not,” Will replied. “I want to talk about the night you said you killed Cassandra Boyle.”

Gideon looked amused and perplexed. “Interesting choice of words, Professor Graham. ‘You said.’ Do you doubt I did it?”

“I am only trying to get to the truth of what happened.”

“It is very simple. I was hungry. I saw her. I bit her.”

“Why did you drink her blood?”

“I told you. I was hungry.” Gideon glanced at the upper left corner of his cell. “Do you see that spider spinning her web, Professor Graham? Every day, she goes to work, straightening threads, adding new ones, making more sticky substance to spread all over. And every day, some hapless flies wander through my window and get stuck. She wraps them up in little silk pockets, bites them, and drains them of all their fluids. Why? Because blood is life, Professor Graham. Those are the words I live by. Cassandra Boyle was a fly; I am a spider.”

“You did not drink the blood of your wife and her family when you killed them two years ago.”

Gideon spied a piece of straw poking out of his mattress. He pushed it back in with his big toe. “No, unfortunately not. It might have made Christmas dinner more interesting.”

“What about Marissa Schurr?” Will asked.

“What?”

Will stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What about the night you killed Marissa Schurr?”

“That loud-mouthed girl? I have never been near her. What makes you think I did that?”

Will did not answer his question. “And the captain of the _Empusa_? Andrew Caldwell? Sheldon Isley?”

“Why are you giving me all these names?” Gideon demanded. “I never touched them. Is this Frederick’s idea of a joke?”

“Whoever killed Cassandra Boyle also killed those four people.”

Confused, Gideon frowned. “You are telling me I could not have killed her. Why?”

Will scuffed his shoe on the rough floor. “I believe you saw something the night Cassandra Boyle died.”

“Well you’re wrong. I did not.” Gideon shook his head. “Yes, I saw her walking home alone, but that was it. Everything else after that is a foggy memory. Whatever killed her crept up on her like smoke.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “It is like something I read the other day. Tell me, Professor Graham, do you know how to kill a vampire?”

“No.” The conversation was rapidly veering into a direction Will had not prepared for. He wished he had accepted Brown’s offer of a chair.

“Really? I thought you were well-read.”

“I read a great deal,” Will replied indignantly.

“Well, you are obviously not reading the right kind of books.” Gideon shifted positions to relieve pressure off his feet. “There are two main ways of killing a vampire. One is fairly standard. Stake through the heart. Cut off the head. Horribly messy, but it gets the job done. The other is far more…insidious.”

Will decided to humor Gideon. “And what is that.”

Gideon’s eyes rolled to the ceiling as he recalled information from his memory. “If a person willingly diverts a vampire’s attention until the first rays of dawn, the vampire will die. At least, that is what the book said.”

“How would that be possible?” Will asked before he could stop himself. The staking and beheading he could understand; they were brutally physical. The second method sounded like something out of a fairytale. “And why are you telling me?”

“I suppose it has something to do with light and pure sacrifice. I don’t know. It is nothing more than a story,” Gideon mused. “Maybe you’ll find it useful.”

Will repressed the urge to contradict him. This was a waste of time. Why had he even thought questioning Gideon was a good idea? He had gleaned nothing new except that Chilton needed to keep Miss Lounds’s books away from his patients. Keeping his eye on Gideon, Will knocked on the cell door.

“You are many things, Dr. Gideon, but you are not a vampire.”

Gideon regarded Will with a weary, bitter smile. “You believe that? I only wish I had so much certainty of what I am and what I am not.”

..

Soon, as Will had predicted, the bodies grew too numerous for the graves. At his wit’s end, the sextant resorted to digging large pits in the earth where the shrouded corpses were dumped with little ceremony. The funerals ceased; even Dr. Bloom stopped attending. No one wept for the dead anymore. Fear and dread had dried their tears. In the silence that lay over the town, all heard the drumbeat of Death calling to them. “Come ye, join this dance! I stand alone, yet do I overcome you all!”

The priests, unable to counter Death’s argument, joined the chorus singing, “ _Media vita in morte sumus_.” In the midst of life, we are in death.”

In his dreams, bloodstained white crosses loomed over Will as a shadow with long fingers reached for his heart. He slept little. Instead of history, he poured over notes Miss Katz had given him about every victim. He learned nothing. The strange murderer’s face lay behind a veil just beyond Will’s reach.

All the while, Abigail’s condition worsened.

Only Hannibal’s presence kept Will from unraveling like a worn sock. He visited daily, bearing meals and small gifts of rare books he had acquired during his travels throughout Europe and Asia. Blushing furiously, Will had declared he could not accept something so precious, but Hannibal, enclosing Will’s fingers around the volume, insisted. That night, they sat together in Will’s study and poured over the intricately decorated manuscript until Will fell asleep to the sound of Hannibal’s low voice reading Ovid’s poetry.

The next morning, Will awoke and went upstairs to find Hannibal tending Abigail. “This is what I have wanted,” he realized as he watched them together. A piece of his soul he had not known was missing slid into place. “This is what I have always wanted.”

Winston still acted oddly around Hannibal, but Will figured that would change in time.

If only Abigail would get better.

“Have you ever lost a patient?” Will asked one evening while he and Hannibal kept vigil beside Abigail’s bed.

“Yes, but that was many years ago.” Hannibal’s fingers trailed up the nape of Will’s neck. They twisted in his curls, tenderly stroking and tugging. Will leaned into Hannibal’s touch. He drank in the steady calm Hannibal radiated with every caress. “We will not lose her, Will. I promise.” He leaned down until his nose brushed against the crown of Will’s head. “And I always keep my promises.” His hands slid down until they rested on Will’s shoulders. They lingered there for a moment, their weight warm and fortifying, before Hannibal stepped away from Will’s chair.

“She should be all right for now. I am going to prepare dinner. Come downstairs when you are ready.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.” Quietly, Hannibal exited the room, leaving Will, Abigail, and Winston alone.

“Come back to me,” Will murmured. He smoothed Abigail’s blankets. Seeing her like this reminded him of those long days in the hospital twelve years ago. She had been so tiny, her little body lost in the large bed and her skin as white as the bandage around her neck. The doctor despaired that she would ever wake. The trauma had been too great for one so young, he had explained. They needed to maintain realistic expectations. Yet Will continued to visit her. He came whenever he could: in the mornings, in the evenings, between classes. He sat beside her bed and watched Abigail in her deep sleep. As days turned to weeks, he started reading to her, first from his textbooks and then stories appropriate for little girls—tales of enchanted princesses in the woods. Will had no idea if he helped. He only hoped that somewhere in the depths of her mind, Abigail heard his voice and knew she was not alone.

“ _The prince had his servants carry it away on their shoulders. But then it happened that one of them stumbled on some brush, and this dislodged from Snow-White’s throat the piece of poisoned apple that she had bitten off. Not long afterward she opened her eyes, lifted the lid from her coffin, sat up, and was alive again_.”

And then, after a month of silence, Abigail woke up screaming.

“Hullo,” she said suddenly, interrupting Will’s memories. She blinked tiredly. “You look worried.”

“Hullo,” he replied. “I am fine. It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Liar,” she chided. “I knew I was right.” She exhaled heavily. “I am getting better, Will. I have to get worse before I get better. Hannibal has been taking good care of me. Hasn’t he told you?”

“Told me what?”

Abigail licked her lips. “If Hannibal has not told you, then I can’t. I should not have said anything.”

“What? What is he going to tell me?”

“Nothing. It is nothing.” She winced at a pain in her stomach. “I am not sure how much longer I can stand this. I wish it would just end.”

Will took her hand. “It will. Just concentrate on getting well.”

She smiled, a dreamy look in her eyes. “Will…” she began. “Never mind. Hannibal loves us very much.”

“I know.” he said softly. He brushed a stray lock of hair off her face. “Now get some more rest.” Abigail rolled her eyes, but she obeyed, snuggling a little deeper into her bed. Within seconds, she was asleep.

He squeezed her little fingers. They were cool. She probably needed another blanket. Rising from his chair, Will noticed the bandage around her wrist. He paused. The gauze was fresh and clean, as if it had been recently applied. But the injury was old. It should have healed by now, or at least enough that it did not need to be covered. A scratch from a rose’s thorn did not warrant such care.

Except it had not come from a rose’s thorn. Marissa Schurr had said as much.

What was Abigail hiding? Hannibal too, Will realized. Only Hannibal could have dressed Abigail’s wrist so efficiently.

Taking Abigail’s wrist in his hands, Will tugged the expertly tied knot loose. He unwrapped the bandage once, twice, three times. His eyes widened. The bandage slipped from his fingers and dropped onto the floor.

Piercing the flesh of Abigail’s wrist were two small red punctures. They were fresh.

The veil tore. On the other side stood a monster from myth and legend, not a shadow, but flesh and real, wearing a mask of perfect gentility.

Leaving Winston with Abigail, Will firmly shut her bedroom door. He leaned against it, wishing that any minute now, he would awaken shaken and covered in sweat but comforted in the knowledge that the visions his mind produced were just fantasies. That Hannibal was simply a polite, eccentric doctor whom Will loved. That he was not a creature gradually destroying Will’s town and draining Abigail’s life away.

Numb as a sleepwalker, he descended the stairs. Halfway down, Will spied Hannibal busily setting the table. With effortless grace, he arranged the glasses, silverware, plates, and napkins. He filled the glasses with dark red wine. Will could not see his face, but he knew Hannibal was smiling. Will’s stomach churned.

Sensing Will’s presence, Hannibal turned. His smile faded when he saw Will, replaced with a look of contemplative acceptance.

“You know.”

“What,” Will hissed through clenched teeth, “are you?”

“In my own tongue, I have been called _kraugerys_. Among the Slavs, _upir_. In your language, I am _vampyr_.” Hannibal tilted his head inquisitively. “Are you terribly disappointed I am not what you thought I was, Will?”

“I am not sure disappointed is the work I would use.” Tremors of anger, fear, revulsion, and grief coursed through him. “What are you doing to Abigail?”

“I am giving her a new life, Will.”

“You are killing her.”

“Everything I have said about Abigail’s condition is true.” Hannibal moved toward the stairs. “This is the refining fire, and Abigail will emerge shining and beautiful, like she was always meant to be.”

“She won’t be human.”

“She knows. We have discussed this.”

Will could not believe what he was hearing. “She wants this?”

Hannibal rested his hand on the banister. His fingers traced the grain of the wood. “She was accepting when I revealed myself to her, yes. She has always wanted a family, Will, so I promised her I would make one.” Hannibal knelt on the lowest stair. “The three of us can be together.”

“What do you mean?”

Hannibal lowered his eyes. “I had hoped we would have more time together before I told you the truth and asked you.”

Gooseflesh rose on Will’s arms. “Ask me what?”

“To be with me.” Will’s knees buckled underneath him. He sank down on the stairs. Hannibal shifted like he wanted to draw closer to Will, but he kept his distance, held back by the invisible barrier of revelation. “‘ _Qu’il n’a de riens envie fors d’estre en vo baille_ ’.”

Will recoiled. He knew the Old French song well. “My heart desires nothing but to be in your power.” He shook his head, his resolve weakening. “Hannibal speak don’t.”

“‘ _Helas, et je mendie d’esperance et d’aïe; don’t ma jois est fenie se pité ne vous en prent_ ’.”

“Alas, I am left begging for hope and relief; for my joy is at its end without your compassion.” Will closed his eyes. “Hannibal…” He gritted his teeth. “‘I should live a happy life, sweet creature, if only you truly realized that you were the cause of all my concern’.” His words lacked the elegant rhythms of the medieval French, but Will could not bring himself to care. He sighed. “Why me? And do not quote Machaut this time.”

“If I quote Guillaume de Machaut, it is because his words come close to capturing my feelings for you, Will.” Will heard traces of annoyance in Hannibal’s tone. He felt a strange pleasure at testing Hannibal’s patience. Perhaps sorrow had made him reckless.

“I have been alone nearly all my life,” Hannibal continued. “In all my years, I have never known anyone like you, Will. You are unique among humanity. When I first read your book on Gilles de Rais, I was fascinated by how easily you slipped into his head and captured the minute aspects of his personality. Despite the separation of time, you noticed quirks and characteristics no one else would have unless they knew him personally. In those pages, I saw your potential, what you could become. The more I read, the more I formed an ideal of you. I had to know if the vision in my mind was real.” The wood creaked as Hannibal adjusted positions. “To my delight, you surpassed all my expectations. You are everything I have ever longed for and more, Will.”

Will swallowed hard. “Does Alana Bloom know?”

“I have never seen need to tell her,” Hannibal said after a moment’s pause.

Will opened his eyes, but he did not look at Hannibal. “You killed Abigail’s friend. How do you think she will react when she finds out?”

“I expect she will be angry, furious even, and deeply grieved,” Hannibal said. “I hope she forgives me in time. Surely you do not greatly mourn the young woman, Will?”

Will frowned as comprehension dawned. “You killed her because she was rude to her mother. Marissa Schurr humiliated her in front of us.”

“Her behavior was distasteful, to say the least,” Hannibal agreed. “I thought you would understand.”

“Understanding does not mean condoning.” Will knew that well. “These people are like pigs to you. Every death confirms your superiority over them.”

“I do not choose them arbitrarily, Will. How else would you suggest I live?”

“No, no, you are not alive,” Will replied coldly. He forced himself to look at Hannibal. In the dim candlelight, Will could see him clearly, his pale skin, his long fingers, his prominent teeth. Pulling himself up, Will began to descend the stairs again. “You would make me and Abigail share that existence?”

“I would make you do nothing, Will,” Hannibal said. He stepped back slowly. “It would be your choice. I wanted to give you a gift.”

“A gift?” It sounded so innocent, like Hannibal was giving Will another book or a dog. “A new life.” It was so, so tempting. All he needed to do was say one word, and Hannibal would embrace him. The three of them would be together, a proper family. Nothing would ever tear them apart.

A knife on the table lay in easy reach. Will picked it up. “I would be justified in driving this into your heart and cutting off your head.”

Fear flickered briefly in Hannibal’s eyes. “Would you?”

The knife handle ground into Will’s palm. He wanted to. He imagined stabbing Hannibal in the chest. Hot blood splashed onto his hands. Hannibal watched him with the same damnable adoring gaze as he collapsed onto the floor. He did not make a sound as Will pulled the knife out. His eyes remained fixed on Will. Gripping his hair, Will slashed across Hannibal’s throat. The skin parted easily under the blade. Thick, dark red blood poured out, covering the floor and drenching Hannibal and Will. The coppery smell filled the air. Still Will continued to saw through Hannibal’s neck. The muscles and tendons parted under his blade with difficulty. Will groaned with frustration as the knife scraped against Hannibal’s spine. He forced it down harder. Finally, Hannibal’s head parted from his body. Will lifted it up and stared into his eyes, like Salome with the head of John the Baptist.

His breath left his lungs in a rush. “No one would believe me,” he lied. Without Hannibal, Will would be alone once more. There would be no one to converse with late into the evenings, no one whom would listen to Will without judging him or thinking he needed fixing. Killing Hannibal would tear Will’s soul asunder. He might as well stab himself in the heart. It would produce the same effect.

The knife fell from his hand. Hannibal caught it before it hit the floor.

“Will?”

“Leave,” he whispered. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly very cold. “Please.”

A moment passed in silence. Hannibal gathered his coat and hat. “Goodnight, Will.” The door closed softly behind him.

A choked sob forced its way out of Will’s throat. Tears stung his eyes but did not fall. He buried his face in his hands, wishing he could scrub away the memory of Hannibal’s voice, his smile, his touch. He though of the dead in the morgue, the lines of coffins, and the mass graves, and he could not stop craving Hannibal’s presence.

“ _Beware that his shadow does not engulf you like a demonic nightmare_.”

“It’s too late,” he gasped. “It’s too late.”

..

In the days following Will’s discovery, sleep became a stranger to him. He spent all of his time in Abigail’s room guarding her. With a heavy heart, he watched powerless as she deteriorated. Her skin lost all color and grew thin as paper. Her eyes, on the rare occasion she opened them, were dim and unfocused. She ate and drank little, and what she managed to swallow came up almost immediately. Sometimes, in the depths of her fevered dreams, she breathlessly called out to Hannibal. In those moments, Will could do nothing but hold her hand and plead with her to hold on. Just a little longer.

It was worse while she slept. Will dared not leave her alone for fear that Hannibal would creep into her bedroom and finish what he had started. Often Will paced the small space, debating exactly what he could and should do. He knew his duty. Take a knife, a hammer, and a wooden stake and end Hannibal’s reign violently and bloodily. A certain part of him, frequently acknowledged but never indulged, delighted in the idea of killing Hannibal. The vision of his decapitated head and sightless eyes filled Will with a righteousness he had only felt once before—when he shot Hobbs. How fitting that the only times he had the desire to kill were when Abigail was threatened. Maybe he was a good father after all.

But when he tried to picture life after Hannibal, all Will could see was a terrible, empty absence, a black pit of loneliness and despair that overwhelmed him. How unfortunate he was, how pitiable, that he had found love at last, only to discover that the object of his devotion was a monster that fed upon the blood of the living. Will found he could not hate Hannibal, not entirely, anymore than he could hate a wolf for preying upon sheep. Despite everything he knew, his love for Hannibal endured.

Yet as more bodies filled the mass graves, Will understood this could not go on. Something had to be done.

He was loath to leave Abigail, but Dr. Bloom, insisting that Will needed a break, graciously volunteered to look after her. Will did not tell her the truth about her old mentor or the cause of Abigail’s illness; he did not know how.

And so he went to Crawford’s house.

Will pounded on Crawford’s door until his fist ached. Crawford did not answer. Will tried again. Still nothing. Morning fog clung to the trees and rooftops, covering them with gray damp. Will’s thin coat did little to block out the unseasonable chill. He knocked a third time. The door opened, revealing Mrs. Crawford’s lovely face. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She wore only her nightdress and dressing gown, and her dark hair hung down her back in a long braid. With a flush of shame, Will realized he had roused her out of bed. Before he could stutter an apology, Mrs. Crawford smiled at him warmly.

“Good morning, Will,” she said. “Won’t you come inside?”

“Thank you.” He followed Mrs. Crawford into the parlor. Even dressed so informally, Mrs. Crawford moved with the elegance befitting a queen. It was not hard to see why the Italian men had cried out “ _Bella_! _Bella_!” at the sight of her. At her invitation, Will sat on the Crawfords’ small sofa. She sank into the chair closest to the fire.

“I am afraid you missed Jack,” she explained. Mrs. Crawford’s rich voice was still clear, though slightly winded. “He has another meeting with the town council, but he should be back soon. You are welcome to wait. He is never with them very long these days. It is always the same. Does he know anything? When will he know anything?” Her dark eyes took on a reflective cast. “People should understand that sometimes you simply have to endure.” She regarded him keenly. “Though your coming here makes me suspect you know something.”

Will swallowed hard. “I do,” he confessed. “But I am confused.” He had hoped with Crawford’s help, they could devise a plan to deal with Hannibal. Not to kill him, but maybe to confine him in an isolated prison so he could not torment anyone else. Seeing Mrs. Crawford complicated matters. Crawford was right; Hannibal’s treatments had worked well.

“How are you?” he asked. “I am sorry. I really did not mean to disturb you.”

“I was already up,” she said, waving his concerns away. “I am better than I have been.”

Will leaned forward, suddenly very curious. “What does Dr. Lecter do for you?”

Mrs. Crawford cocked her head. “What a personal question,” she mused. “He has prescribed a number of herbs and teas to ease my breathing. He cannot cure me, but he can lessen my pain without too many opiates. I like that about him.” She fingered the rope of her dressing gown. “He has been trying to convince Jack to take me back to Italy. He says the climate will help me. But there can be no traveling while this plague endures.”

Will shook his head. Of course Hannibal would want Crawford out of the way. He had no plans to devour the ones who had graciously invited him to his new home. “Hannibal is a good doctor.”

“Is that sarcasm I detect, Will Graham?”

“No, I speak the truth,” he replied with a bitter grin. “Hannibal always knows what he is doing.”

Before Mrs. Crawford could question him further, the front door opened. Crawford entered, his eyes red and weary from exhaustion. Ignoring Will’s presence, Crawford walked straight to his wife and kissed her forehead. He said nothing for several minutes, looking into her sweet face and holding her hands. Will averted his eyes from the two. He felt like he was intruding on something terribly intimate.

“What do you have for me, Will?” Crawford asked finally.

Standing, Will nodded towards Mrs. Crawford. “Could we talk in private?” Crawford led Will into a small study. He shut the door behind them.

“Well?”

Will took a deep breath. “It is not plague. It is not even a disease. Every death has been murder.”

“Murder,” Crawford repeated. He leaned on his desk. “What kind of man could commit murder like this?”

Will scrubbed his forehead. Anxiety and tension tumbled inside him. Another headache was coming on. “What do you know about vampires, Jack?”

Crawford looked disappointed. “Vampires?” He shrugged. “Zee said you had come up with some theory related to the asylum.”

“That didn’t go anywhere. Not really.”

“Then what do you mean about vampires?”

Will adjusted the eyepiece of his spectacles. The words in his head were jumbled and confused. He had no idea where to begin. “How much do you know about Hannibal Lecter?”

A deep cease settled between Crawford’s eyebrows. “Are you telling me Hannibal Lecter is a vampire?”

“Yes.”

Crawford said nothing. The frown eased. “Go home, Will.”

Will took a shaky breath. In truth, he had not expected Crawford to believe him, but he hoped Crawford would listen. “Jack, I know what I have seen.”

“No Will. I know about Abigail Hobbs. I know you are distracted and tired. You have to think clearly and not point in the wrong direction. You have made a mistake.”

“I haven’t!” Will protested.

“Vampires are not real.”

“I thought so too, but—.”

“Then do not say things you know are not true.”

Will stepped away from Crawford’s desk. “If you won’t believe me, I will go to the town council.”

Crawford shook his head. “The council has been dissolved. It does not exist anymore.”

“The mayor then.”

“He is dead.”

Desperation grew in Will. “The police?”

“They don’t exist anymore, Will.”

“But—.”

“Enough.” Crawford ushered Will to the door. “Listen to me, Will,” he said firmly. “Go home. Rest. We will sort this business out the best we can.”

“Jack…” He glanced up at Crawford’s weary face. It was no use. There was nothing more Will could say. Whatever he decided, he would have to do it alone.

..

“Come on, Will!” Abigail called as she ran through the woods. Her little red boots kicked up piles of fallen leaves. Bending down, she threw them into the air and scurried about trying to catch them before they hit the ground again. Most crumbled in her hands. She let them go with a disappointed scrunch of her nose. One managed to maintain its shape, a brilliant yellow leaf almost as big as Abigail’s head. She twirled it by its stem, delighted with the way the sun shone through the leaf and made the yellow even brighter. Proudly, she presented it to Will.

“Can I keep it?”

Will adjusted his grip on the fishing gear. “Of course. Hold onto it, and you can put it in your scrapbook when we get home.”

She waited until he caught up with her to start walking again. “Could I carry anything?” she asked, keenly eying the fishing poles and basket.

“I think this is all a little heavy for you. Maybe when you’re older.”

She huffed. “Grown-ups always say ‘when you’re older’.”

Will shrugged. “Well, when you’re older, I promise I won’t say it anymore.” Abigail rolled her eyes at the bad joke, but she laughed anyway. Grinning, Will reached down and ruffled her hair, slightly mussing her hair. Abigail shrieked and batted his hands away.

“Will, Will, my braids! And you spent so long on them too!” she chastised, giving Will a reproachful look that would have been scathing on anyone but a round-faced six year old. She was right. Will was not used to dressing a little girl’s hair and had made a couple of failed attempts before settling on something acceptable. Still, her frown broke into a little smile as she slipped her sunbonnet onto her head, and Will could ask for nothing more.

“If I find any mushrooms, can we take them home?”

“All right. Just let me look at them first.” That was all the permission she needed. Immediately, she began dashing about, digging through small clusters of fallen leaves for anything remotely edible. With a loud, triumphant cry, she held a perfectly formed mushroom in the air for Will to see.

“I found one! I found one—oh.” She abruptly halted, her eyes wide as she stared at something in the distance. The prized leaf and mushroom slipped unnoticed from her fingers. Cautiously, Will crept up to see what had captured Abigail’s attention. Several yards ahead of them, a doe grazed on some underbrush. She was a beautiful creature, sleek, elegant, and graceful. Abigail watched her, transfixed. Her hands twitched with the urge to approach the deer and pet her.

“Easy, easy,” Will whispered in her ear. “Be very still, and she won’t be frightened.”

A twig snapped. Startled, the doe leapt away. Abigail cried out in dismay.

“Will, can I follow her? Please?” she pleaded, tugging on his coat.

“You can try. Just be careful.” Immediately, she sprinted after the doe. Her sunbonnet flew off her head and landed on the ground, forgotten. Will lingered behind, following at a slower pace. He kept a close eye on her as she chased the deer. He shook his head, amused. It was fun to watch her scamper about. Although Abigail was determined, her short legs were no match for the doe’s swiftness. Soon she would grow tired, and they would continue their trek to the lake.

A harsh and sudden stillness descended on the forest. Will heard no birds, no rustling leaves, no footsteps. Where was Abigail? He could not see her. Will called her. Silence answered him. He called her again, but his echoing voice was the only sound in the woods. Panic seized him, and he ran, shouting her name. The sun’s light faded, replaced with the cold silver of the moon. Around him, black leafless trees, bare and stark as bones, loomed. Will could barely see anything in the midst of the darkness, but he continued to run. He had to find his daughter.

“Abigail! Abigail!”

“Here, Will!” Relief flooding his heart, Will raced to the sound of her voice. He found her kneeling at the foot of a large oak tree. Her hair had come loose. She was completely drenched in a black liquid—arms, mouth, dress, apron. Blood. In front of Abigail lay the doe, chest and belly ripped open. Entrails spilled onto the ground. The doe’s broken ribs jutted out from her torn flesh.

Will turned to see Garrett Jacob Hobbs beside him, a loving look in his sightless eyes as they watched Abigail search through the doe’s chest cavity. He smiled at Will.

“See?” he said, ever the proud father showing off his daughter’s accomplishments.

Abigail held the doe’s heart in her hands. Blood dripped through her fingers. With sharp little teeth, she bit into the flesh.

“See?”

Will’s eyes snapped open. He winced. His back and neck were stiff and ached from sitting in the uncomfortable chair for so many hours. He did not remember drifting off, but he could not have been asleep for very long. Night still hung over the town, and only a small sliver of moonlight slipped through the window. It would be several hours before Dr. Bloom arrived to check on him and Abigail. Rising, Will rolled his head from side to side, groaning at the painful popping of his joints. Gently, he touched one of Abigail’s hands resting on top of the blankets. She murmured a little.

He walked to her vanity, stepping over Winston and narrowly avoiding tripping over Abigail’s basket of needlework. He poured a little water into a basin to splash on his face. It helped wake him up, although fatigue still lay heavily on him. Looking out of the window, Will felt as if he was staring into a sea of black. He saw no lamps or candles in the neighboring houses. Even the street lamps had not been lit.

Behind him, Winston growled. The back of Will’s neck prickled with a sudden chill. He whirled around. Two red eyes gazed at him through the darkness.

“Good evening, Will. I apologize if I have started you,” Hannibal said.

Will snorted. “I’m not sure ‘startled’ is the right word,” he paused, “Dr. Lector.” Winston continued growling. Reluctantly, Will called him off, although he wished for a little more light to see Hannibal shift warily at the dog’s aggression.

“Are we no longer using our given names, Will? Or should I say, Professor Graham?”

“Professor Graham is fine.” Their social titles lent Will the illusion of formality and distance. Dr. Lecter and Professor Graham were simply neighbors, barely acquaintances. They did not have midnight suppers, secret conversations, or send notes quoting medieval poetry. They were polite to each other, nothing more.

Heart still pounding, Will glanced at Abigail’s prone form. Hannibal stood far too close to her for Will’s liking. Suddenly, Will wondered just how long he had slept, and how long Hannibal had been in the room with them.

“I have not touched her, if that is what you were concerned about,” Hannibal said, following Will’s line of sight. He placed a hand on Abigail’s forehead. Will’s insides lurched, but he did not intervene.

“How long has she been like this?” Hannibal asked.

“Since the night you left.”

Bending low over her, Hannibal whispered a few words in Abigail’s ear. She moaned, and her breathing eased somewhat. “She is suffering, Professor.” He retreated from the bed, putting a clear distance between him and Abigail. “When will you end it?”

“When will I let her die you mean?” Hannibal did not reply. Will turned away, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, as if that could block out the bitter chill of the night. He shuddered. The position reminded him too much of Abel Gideon’s straightjacket, so he stuffed his hands into his pockets instead. He felt Hannibal’s eyes on the back of his neck, but Will could not bear to look at him now. He could not trust his own actions if he did.

“Why did you come?” he muttered.

“I wanted to see you and her,” Hannibal replied softly.

“Why?”

“Do we need a reason to want to see those we love?”

Will shrugged. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether those you love want to see you.” It was a jab, almost a petulant one, but Will did not regret his words. Hannibal said nothing for a long time, and for a moment, Will wondered if he had slipped out of the room. He still sensed Hannibal behind him, though. Curious, Will pressed him with another question.

“What would you have done if you had come and found Abigail, Winston, and I had left? No note, nothing. What if I just packed up our things and slipped out of town without anyone knowing?”

“We would find each other again eventually,” Hannibal said.

“You are very certain. Would you look for me?”

“Not until you wanted to be found.”

“What makes you think I would want to be found?” Will asked. “I think you are wrong. I would be the one to find you. You would just make yourself too conspicuous to ignore.”

Will almost heard the faint grin in Hannibal’s voice. “What makes you think I live conspicuously?”

“Oh I don’t know.” Will could not help the smile on his own face. “I’ll just search for the eccentric doctor who lives in the oldest house in town. Will that do?”

He knew Hannibal was grinning now. “Eccentric? I have been called several things but not eccentric.”

“Would you prefer ridiculous?” Will counted the words on his fingers. “Ostentatious? Pretentious? Odd?” Will glanced back to see Hannibal’s reaction. Instantly, he realized his mistake. The sight of Hannibal watching him, amusement in his eyes, made Will’s heart stutter and his chest tighten. He had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed their conversations.

“Odd?” Hannibal repeated. “We are talking about me, yes?”

“Oh yes,” Will said. “If we were talking about me, we would be throwing around some very different words.”

“Such as?”

“You know. Reclusive. Acerbic. Insane.”

“You are not insane.” Hannibal’s voice was soft.

“Aren’t I?” Will bit back. He had fallen in love with a nightmare after all, still loved that nightmare. Even before that, he had stared at horrors that sent most people running and embraced them. Was it any wonder why people watched him warily and Chilton wanted to study him under a microscope? “There are a lot of people who would disagree with you.”

“Who?”

Will blinked in surprise. “We will be here all night if you want every name.” When Hannibal said nothing, Will shrugged and began to make a list. “The town council, the university administrators. Miss Lounds, of course. Chilton. I wonder about Jack sometimes.” Will remembered the tired, pitying look in Jack’s eyes. He wished he could have done something, anything, shoved Hannibal’s bloodstained teeth in his face, just so Jack could see and believe him. “Oh, and Zeller.”

“Who is Zeller?”

“Brian Zeller. He works at the morgue. He and I have never seen eye to eye.”

Will took a deep breath, bracing himself for Hannibal’s reaction. “I told Jack, you know.”

Hannibal’s face registered no surprise. “I expected you would after our last meeting.”

“Are you angry?”

“What did Constable Crawford say?”

“He didn’t believe me. You have nothing to fear from him. Are you angry?”

“I would be angrier if you had not told me.” Hannibal’s red eyes shone. Will did not flinch. “What will you do now?”

Will shook his head. “What can I do?”

“Come to me.” The words were said so gently, so plaintively that Will turned around to face Hannibal fully. “Let me embrace you and take you away from here.”

“Where would we go?”

“I dream of taking you to Florence, but I would go wherever you wanted.”

Will took a cautious step toward Hannibal, then another and another, until they were hovering in each other’s space. His heart quickened as his hands urged him to reach out and touch Hannibal, grab him, pull him close, hold him until Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will and Will collapsed into the embrace. “No,” Will told himself. Instead, he looked into Hannibal’s eyes. They were not truly red, although Will could see traces of the color in Hannibal’s darkening irises. The sight reminded him of the whiskey Hannibal had given him that first night they had sat together and talked. Maybe he should have made the connection earlier between the deaths and the newly arrived doctor, but he had been so relieved to have someone to converse with, who shared his interests, that he did not consider the two could be related.

“What made you like this?” he asked after a moment.

“Nothing made me. I made me,” Hannibal rsaid. “If you mean how I entered my current state, I became what I am when I beheaded the creature who killed my sister.”

A sister. Will frowned slightly. “What was her name?”

“Mischa.”

A picture formed in Will’s head. A wild, playful sprite with flowers in her hair and mud on her gown. He imagined her running with Hannibal collecting fallen leaves as they explored the woods together. Will understood. He understood everything, the burning need for revenge, the loneliness, the need to find that love again, the search for it through the centuries. What good was immortality if you could not fix what was broken?

Closing his eyes, Will sighed. “Hannibal.”

“Will.” He felt Hannibal’s fingers lightly brush against his cheek. He leaned into the touch. It would be so easy to give in, to say yes. Slowly, reluctantly, Will stepped out of Hannibal’s reach.

“You better go.”

Hannibal did not need to be told twice. He disappeared into the darkness as silently as he came. “Goodnight, Will.”

“Goodnight.”

..

The morning brought Dr. Bloom’s arrival and a letter Will found slipped underneath the door. The paper was white and stiff, and the envelope had been sealed with a red wax stamp of a serpent devouring a man. Will read the letter once. He threw it into the fire.

His feet swiftly carried him across town, past the quiet houses with tightly shuttered windows, past the ones with white crosses marked on their doors, past the coffins lying abandoned in the streets. He found Miss Katz sitting on the steps of the morgue. Her hair had come loose, framing her face like two black curtains. As Will approached, she glanced up, but she did not rise to meet him.

“How did you hear?” she asked. All traces of mirth had vanished from her face. It was difficult to look at her.

“Let me see him.”

Without a word, Miss Katz stood and led him inside. Together they descended deep into the grim building. The thick, tiled walls closed in around them, and the sharp smell of preserving chemicals and dead flesh assaulted Will’s nose. Normally, at any other time, Miss Katz would lean over and whisper a joke to break the tension and make Will smile. Not today. She stared straight ahead, her face stoically set. She had not been crying. Not yet.

As they stepped into the room, Will inhaled sharply. Bodies covered with white sheets lay on every flat surface. Dining tables had been brought in to provide more space for them. Still more corpses had been placed as neatly as they could on the floor. Price bent over a body on the table. Will heard the murmur of his voice, but he could not make out any of the words.

“Bit too late, I’m afraid,” Price commented when he saw Will and Miss Katz enter. “Not that it would do much good at this point. We are all dead. Just waiting for the final signature.”

He smoothed the lapel of Zeller’s jacket. “You know, I have a couple of bottles of wine in my cellar. Good wine, from Alsace. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” He smiled bitterly. “I suppose the end of the world is reason enough. Watch over him while I’m out, Beverly.” Price surveyed the room one more time, his eyes lingering on Zeller. “I will be back in a little bit.”

He nodded briefly at Will. “In case we don’t meet again, we’ll see you at St. Peter’s.” Popping a top hat on his head, Price departed.

Sighing heavily, Miss Katz pushed some of the hair away from her face and walked to Zeller’s body. Will followed. He could not speak. Even simple condolences seemed like harsh insults when he looked at Zeller’s corpse. Zeller was uncovered but fully dressed and lay stretched out atop a mahogany table with his hands folded neatly on his chest. Where it not for the shocked expression frozen on his face, he would have been ready to be placed in a coffin for his funeral. “I put him here,” Will thought, bile flooding into his mouth. Not directly, but he as good as signed Zeller’s death warrant when he told Hannibal about him. Staring into Zeller’s gray face, Will imagined the rush of power Hannibal must have felt stalking his prey, catching him, killing him, and then arranging him as a present. In life Zeller had made his living studying corpses. In death, he was nearly lost among them.

Miss Katz was speaking. With a rush of guilt, Will realized he had not been listening. “…wants Zeller to have a proper funeral, even if he has to dig the grave himself,” she said. She paused, her keen eyes fixed on Will’s face.

“The last time we talked, you said that a man was doing these killings. Do you know who he is?”

He could not lie to her. Not here. “Yes.”

“Have you told Crawford?”

“He did not believe me.”

“What?!” she exclaimed. “Why? Crawford has always trusted…” she trailed off, perplexed. “Never mind. Tell me. Who is he?”

This was it. Miss Katz might believe him, at least about Hannibal being a murderer. Even if she did not at first, she would listen and help him find the evidence to prove what Hannibal was. They could end this. They could…Will closed his eyes.

“I can’t.” The words escaped him before Will realized what he had said.

Miss Katz stared at him incredulously. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you.”

She stalked towards him. “Will, people are dying. We can end this.”

“No. We cannot.” Grabbing her shoulders, he forced himself to look into her eyes. “ _You_ cannot.”

She shrugged out of his grip. “I don’t understand.” When he did not answer, she pressed further. “You know. Who is he?”

Once more he debated telling her everything about Hannibal. She could kill him without any qualms. Will groaned. As if he could put her in that kind of danger. Hannibal would rip her throat out before she had a chance to fight back. But more than that, Will found that he did not want her to kill Hannibal, nor could he let Hannibal be killed. Not with a stake and hammer. Not with a sword or a knife.

“Will…” she tried again.

Will stepped away from her. A curious sense of peace settled on him as he finally understood. There was only one path he could take. Where Hannibal went, Will would always follow. Why had he delayed so?

“Will, what are you hiding?” Turning towards her, Will saw Miss Katz watching him warily. What would she do if she knew about him and Hannibal, about the secrets they kept? He could easily envision her hunting vampires, dispatching them with ease. Miss Katz was an excellent shot, after all.

He slipped away from Zeller’s table. “I am sorry,” he said, the words finally coming. “I will see you around, Miss Katz.” He exited the morgue and walked back into the daylight. There was much to do.

..

The door of Hannibal’s house opened before Will on its own accord, welcoming him inside. Will entered the elegantly decorated entry hall, but he did not see Hannibal. In another room, far away, he heard the lilting melody of a harpsichord. Shucking off his coat, Will followed the sound of the music. It led him deep into the house, past sitting and dining rooms, a library filled with treasures collected over Hannibal’s many years. All of them were beautifully restored but hardly used. They reminded Will of the rooms of a museum, like when sections of a palace would be opened up for the public to file along roped lines to gawk at how kings lived in days past. They were suspended in time, never changing apart from whatever superficial adjustments Hannibal decided to make.

He found Hannibal, not surprisingly, in the music room. Standing silently in the doorway, Will watched the graceful movements of Hannibal’s back and shoulders as his fingers glided over the keys. Hannibal did not greet him, but Will saw the way his posture straightened and his head tilted as he stepped into the room.

“Do you know this piece, Will?” Hannibal asked. He did not cease playing. The song was unfamiliar to Will. He took the unspoken invitation to join Hannibal and sat on the bench beside him.

“It is called ‘If Love Now Reigned’ by King Henry VIII of England.” Hannibal paused for a moment before beginning a different tune. “Perhaps you are more familiar with this one?”

Will was. “‘Alas my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously’,” he quoted in a hushed voice. “‘For I have loved you well and long, delighting in your company’.” Will smirked. Hannibal was hardly subtle.

“I saw what you left me at the morgue,” he said.

The music increased in tempo. “How did it make you feel?”

“Like I killed him.” Will raised his eyes to the Italian-styled painted ceiling. Vines and flowers curled above them. “I knew what you were asking and what you would do if I gave you names, and I told you anyway because…” He sighed. “Because I was curious and I wanted to see you do it.”

“Were you satisfied?”

“Very. But two of my acquaintances are bereaved now.”

“Death inevitably brings grief,” Hannibal commented.

“Indeed.” Gingerly, Will traced one of the harpsichord keys with his finger. “Looking at his body made me feel like I had killed all of your victims. Not just the ones here, but every one stretching back to…” he frowned. “Let me think. 1410? Battle of Grunwald?”

Hannibal’s face shone with pride. “Clever boy. Yes. _Žalgirio mūšis_.”

“ _Žalgirio mūšis_ ,” Will repeated, the Lithuanian words unfamiliar to his tongue. “Tell me what happened.”

He listened while Hannibal wove a tale about plague and two children trapped in a frozen castle in the middle of a bitterly harsh winter. He spoke of fevers and desperate prayers that finally seemed to be answered when a knight stumbled onto the castle. Only the knight was false. He complained about his never-ending hunger as the children’s illnesses grew worse. At night he watched them with shining eyes. Then one morning, Hannibal woke up, healthy again, with blood in his mouth and his sister dead with teeth marks in her neck. The knight had disappeared. Hannibal described the years afterwards, reuniting with his uncle, growing up in France, studying medicine, and traveling throughout Europe. All through those years, a strange coldness afflicted him. All food, no matter how sweetly prepared, tasted like ashes in his mouth. He hovered in the state between the living and the dead. Until he finally returned to his native land to help beat back the invading monks and found the knight on the battlefield. The years had left him unchanged. Hannibal beheaded him quickly. As blood poured from the severed neck, Hannibal was struck with an intense hunger he had never known. The cold numbness dissipated. He was alive again.

“And afterwards?” Will asked.

“I began traveling again,” Hannibal replied. “The world was a changing place. There was much to see and many people to meet.”

Will’s eyebrows rose. “Like Gilles de Rais?”

Hannibal’s upper lip curled in distaste. “I found him rude and easily persuadable.”

“I thought so.” Will had always suspected but never had proof that someone had pushed Gilles into revealing his crimes. It made perfect sense. Even as a vampire, Hannibal would never have tolerated the perversion Gilles had become. “You destroyed him very effectively. Well done.”

Hannibal smiled faintly. “Although it happened centuries ago, I am glad you approve.”

“Of course I would. We are one in mind if not in body.” Will licked his lips. His heart skipped beats as his stomach twisted in anticipation. “All that is left is the consummation.”

The music stopped.

“Yes,” Will said, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Yes.”

Hannibal stared at him, hope and uncertainty in his eyes. “Are you certain?”

“I would not say yes if I was not.” Tenderly, Will carded his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal seized his wrist and pressed his lips to the center of Will’s palm. His breath was warm against Will’s skin.

“You breathe,” he murmured.

“I would not be able to speak if I did not,” Hannibal said, bemused. He kissed Will’s knuckles.

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Hannibal kissed Will’s fingers once more. “I will come.” Releasing Will’s hand, Hannibal began to play a new piece. It sounded like one of Bach’s compositions, although Will could not remember its name. Hannibal closed his eyes in complete bliss. Will had never seen him so at ease. Smiling contentedly, Will rested his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and let the delicate notes of the harpsichord sweep over them. As he listened to the music, Will thought of a line he had read during one of his and Hannibal’s evenings together.

“ _Incipit vita nova_.”

“Here begins the new life.”

..

The wafers crumbled easily in Will’s hands. He let the dust fall from his fingers as he slowly circled Abigail’s bed. To his surprise, the wafers had not been difficult to acquire. The priest had simply looked at him with resigned eyes and gave Will as many as he needed before returning to the never-ending prayers for the dead. From a distance, Will had watched him kneel in front of the carved dead Christ. Wafers safe in his pocket, Will had left without another word.

Carefully, without disturbing the circle he had just made, Will slipped a cross around Abigail’s neck. The little necklace was one of the few possessions Abigail had retained from her childhood, before Will had adopted her. He arranged the chain so the cross lay outside against her nightdress instead of her pale skin. In the day’s fading light, it was almost too difficult to tell which was which. Abigail’s skin was white than paper. Her hair lay spread out on the pillow, surrounding her head like a dark halo. Tucking the blankets a little tighter around her, Will bent over to kiss her forehead. Her skin was cold. She did not stir.

“Everything will be all right,” he told her. He kissed her forehead again and exited the room.

Winston sat waiting for him outside. He whined when Will came near, his expressive eyes full of curiosity and confusion. Kneeling down, Will ran his hands along Winston’s fur, stroking his back, his legs, his ears. “You need to be a guard dog,” he said. “It’s going to be a long night, but you can do it.” He should have known the moment Winston had growled at Hannibal that something was wrong. Animals were frequently so much more perceptive than people. But it was too late for that now.

His final preparations completed, Will wandered downstairs to the kitchen to fix some coffee. Bemusedly, he wondered if Hannibal would detect the taste in his blood. If Will added a little whiskey, would Hannibal taste that too? Would he enjoy it?

He was in the middle of his second cup when he heard a knock on the door. He opened it to see Dr. Bloom and a woman Will had seen a couple of times at the hospital. He gestured for the two to come in.

“I received your note,” Dr. Bloom said as she removed her bonnet and shawl. “Has there been any change?”

“No.”

“Then why…?”

“I’m going to be very busy tonight,” he explained. “All night, I’m afraid. I need someone to look after Abigail during that time.” He glanced at the nurse. “And I thought you might need a little help.”

“Elizabeth Shell,” the nurse introduced herself. “Is Miss Hobbs upstairs?” Will nodded, and Nurse Shell began to ascend the stairs.

“Nurse,” Will called. She stopped. “There is a circle of dust around her bed. Do not disturb it.” Nurse Shell looked surprised, but she did not question Will’s instructions. Once she was in Abigail’s room and out of earshot, Dr. Bloom turned to him, her face full of worry.

“Will, what is going on?” she asked. “If anything was wrong, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Everything is fine,” Will said. “I just have some work to do.”

She frowned. “Is it about the plague?”

“You could say that.” She deserved to know about Hannibal. Now was his last opportunity. Perhaps it was cruel to keep the truth from her. What good would the knowledge do her, though, if she believed him? It would only bring pain, misery, and doubt. She did not deserve that.

“I will be in my room,” he said. “Please don’t disturb me until morning. There will be a key at the door if you need to come in.”

“A key?” Dr. Bloom’s eyes widened in alarm. “Will, what are you doing?”

“Only some research.” The absurdity of the lie nearly made him laugh out loud. Smiling at her reassuringly, he squeezed her wrist.

“Goodnight, Dr. Bloom.”

“Will, I…” she trailed off, leaving her words unsaid. “Goodnight, Will.”

He watched her slip into Abigail’s room, Winston remaining on guard outside, before going into his own. Safe inside, Will closed the door, locked it, and slid the key underneath. The last light of day faded, cloaking everything in darkness. Will lit a candle, just one, for now.

He undressed. His clothes he folded and tucked back into the drawers of his dresser. With warm water and soap, he washed his body. His skin prickled in the cool night air, but he did not dress again. Will dropped the towel on the side of the basin and pushed it aside, out of sight.

He lit two more candles, one on either side of the bed. Their small flames flickered weakly, casting shifting shadows on the walls. They did provide a little more illumination, though. Walking to the windows and flung them open. A rush of cold wind flooded the room. Slowly, Will relaxed in the chilled air’s embrace.

“Come,” he whispered into the night. He was ready.

Lying on the bed, Will covered his body with a sheet. He had considered scattering flowers, red and white, but had ultimately decided against it. It was something more in Hannibal’s taste to do. Will could never be quite that theatrical. He preferred their bed to be plain, simple, with no other adornments. Just them. Bed and banquet table. How rarely were the two combined, although they truly were not so different, he mused. Hannibal would certainly have noticed the connection.

Will’s heart jittered with anticipation as he waited. He had no way of measuring how much time passed except for his hushed breaths. In. Out. Again. The candles guttered, leaving Will alone in the darkness. Still he waited. Hannibal would come. Will knew it.

In the corner of his eye, Will saw the shadows shift and take shape. Hannibal stepped into the moonlight, his skin pale and radiant. Will’s breath caught in his throat, and he rose from the bed. He let the sheet slide off his hips, revealing him entirely to Hannibal’s gaze. Hannibal stood frozen, eyes full of adoration, as if he felt unworthy of finally accepting the gift offered to him. Will stretched out his arms, inviting him in, and Hannibal took two steps toward him. Raising his hands, he hesitantly ran them along Will’s body, his arms, his chest, his stomach, before gently cradling Will’s face. They lingered like that for a moment, their breath brushing against each other’s skin before Will’s eyes lowered, and Hannibal closed the distance between them.

Their first kiss was feather-light and soft. Will felt Hannibal’s hands tremble faintly. He pulled back a little to see Hannibal watching him in awe, as if he could not quite believe what had just happened was real. Seeing him like this, so vulnerable, so open, was all the incentive Will needed. He took Hannibal’s head in his hands and brought their lips together again. He poured all of his passion and longing into the kiss. Something seemed to stir inside Hannibal, and he began to respond in kind. His tongue traced the outside of Will’s lips. Will opened to him, and he nearly moaned at the wet heat of Hannibal inside his mouth. Hannibal’s hands left his face, traveling lower, down the plains of his back, until his arms encircled Will’s waist. Will gripped Hannibal’s coat.

It occurred to Will in that moment that Hannibal was wearing far too many clothes. His fingers wandered to the rows of buttons on his coat, and he popped them open, exposing the white shirt Hannibal wore underneath. Hannibal released him long enough for Will to push the coat off his shoulders and let it drop onto the floor.

They parted briefly before Hannibal began to pepper Will’s face with kisses, small ones, deep ones, playful ones, needing ones. Will delighted in the onslaught of affection. Hannibal’s lips traveled to his jaw and down to his neck, kissing and sucking the skin. Will moaned when he felt the light scrape of Hannibal’s teeth. He bit Will lightly, not enough to hurt, much less draw blood. A small taste of what was to come. Will pressed against Hannibal, nearly overcome with the desire to let him take all that he wanted.

Suddenly, Hannibal scooped Will up in his arms. Carrying him to the bed, Hannibal laid Will down. He took a moment to admire the sight before descending on Will again. He spread kisses on Will’s cheeks, nose, eyelids, ears, throat. His lips trailed lower to Will’s chest. He licked and sucked and bit until he came to the spot just above Will’s heart. He looked up and met Will’s eyes. Will nodded.

Hannibal’s teeth pierced his flesh. Blood welled to the surface. Hannibal caught it with his tongue and fixed his mouth onto the wound. Will gasped at the pain, his body arching up against Hannibal’s. Immediately, Hannibal’s hands were on him, stroking him, soothing him. He adjusted his angle, and Will began to relax. The pain receded slightly. Hannibal drank slowly, savoring every drop of Will’s blood.

Clouds passed in front of the moon, creating an impenetrable darkness. Night enveloped them completely. This was their own little corner of the universe, isolated, silent. Gradually, Will began to dream. He imagined holding Hannibal at the edge of a cliff, the black sea churning beneath them. They shifted slightly, and then they were plunging down into the depths. But they never hit the water. Instead, Will opened his eyes to find that he was standing on a balcony in Florence, Brunelleschi’s red dome in the distance. Hannibal embraced him from behind, nuzzling his neck, and pressed a glass of red wine into his hand. No, not wine. Will squeezed the arm around his waist and took a sip. In the other room, he heard Abigail laughing at her fathers’ blatant affection. His vision shifted. The three of them strolled along Florence’s streets, while Hannibal pointed out the places he visited long ago. They visited galleries and slipped into private collections to see works Hannibal had admired for centuries. Eventually they moved on, making their way across Europe—Vienna, Paris, London. They lived in cities where they could hunt without anyone taking too much notice. Even if the deaths did draw the authorities’ attention, they would never be able to pin the crimes on the young lady and her two guardians. In each city, they established themselves—Will with his teaching, Hannibal with his medical practice, and Abigail becoming the perfect hostess. At one of their dinner parties in Paris, he sat on Hannibal’s right while Abigail entertained their unsuspecting guests. She was beautiful in her white dress. There were butterflies painted on the fabric.

Another shock of pain brought Will out of his fantasy. His heart beat rapidly, even as his pulse steadily grew weaker. Hannibal raised his head, halting his drinking momentarily, and kissed Will deeply. The sharp tang of his own blood lingered on Will’s tongue. His hand sought Hannibal’s. Will squeezed it hard. Their fingers intertwined.

Hannibal watched him tentatively, waiting for some indication that he had exhausted Will. He had not. With his other hand, Will guided him back down to the wound on his chest. Hannibal drank again. The pain was not as great this time, replaced by a delicate sensation of pleasure as all warmth in Will’s body concentrated on the spot where Hannibal’s lips pressed against him. He smiled.

Everything would be all right.

The hours passed without their notice.

Outside, Will heard the first notes of birdsong. A rooster crowed. Church bells rang in the distance. Hannibal pulled away from Will’s chest just as the morning sun’s fragile rays pierced their dark cocoon. He reached for Will’s face, seeking his neck, but his body violently seized. Blood poured from his eyes like tears. He stared at Will, blinded with love and grief and betrayal and agony. Lifting his heavy arms, Will cradled Hannibal close and tangled his fingers in his hair. Hannibal choked. His heart pounded as the blood inside him turned to poison. Will held him as his breathing grew wetter and more ragged. His lungs collapsed. Then, with a final convulsion, Hannibal let out a long sigh and was still.

Light flooded their room completely now. Hannibal’s hair was soft under his fingers. Will focused on that and not the cold morning light. Strange, he had never known light to be cold before this. He thought of Abigail in her bed. She would be all right; she had Dr. Bloom and Winston to look after her. He only hoped she could forgive them one day when she understood what he had done and why.

Hannibal had gone. Will was ready to follow.

The light was brilliantly white. It stung. A hot tear slipped down his cheek. Will closed his eyes against the morning and let the light consume them.

..

In a little room, in a little bed, Abigail Hobbs woke up.

She lay very quiet for several minutes, her hands neatly resting on either side of her body, as the dawn peeped through a crack in the closed curtains. She listened to Dr. Bloom reading the story of little Snow-White, the same story Will had read to her when she slept in a hospital bed with bandages wrapped around her poor neck.

“‘The prince had his servants carry it away on their shoulders’,” Dr. Bloom read in her gentle voice. “‘But then it happened that one of them stumbled on some brush, and this dislodged from Snow-White’s throat the piece of poisoned apple that she had bitten off. Not long afterward she opened her eyes, lifted the lid from her coffin, sat up, and was alive again’.”

Abigail wondered how little Snow-White felt after waking up from death.

Something must have alerted Dr. Bloom that Abigail was awake, for she looked up from her book just as the nurse put away her needlework. Together, they rushed to Abigail’s side. While the nurse fussed over her, Dr. Bloom watched Abigail with relief in her pretty blue eyes. Then, catching sight of the daylight, a twinge of trepidation crossed her face, which she immediately hid.

“I will be right back. Look after her, Nurse.”

Abigail sat up in bed, ignoring how the nurse checked her temperature and pulse and inspected her eyes. She saw Winston standing in the doorway, but he did not enter. Suddenly, she heard a loud cry. Swallowing hard, Abigail blinked several times. Her hands twisted the blanket and she resisted the urge to bite her lip.

Silence descended on the house again. Dr. Bloom returned. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks flushed and streaked with tears. She looked like a rag doll held together by only the weakest of stitches.

Instantly, the nurse was at her side. What Dr. Bloom told her, Abigail did not hear, but the nurse gasped and glanced at Abigail, her expression full of pity. The two women shared a nod. Wiping her eyes, Dr. Bloom slipped on a brave mask and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Abigail, I need to go out for a bit,” she said, her voice too low and soft. “But I will return very soon. Stay here. Wait for me.” Her shoulders shuddered with suppressed emotion. “Everything will be all right. I promise.” Squeezing Abigail’s hand, she quickly departed.

“Everything will be all right.” How many times had Will told her that?

The nurse remained at the door, hands folded, her sympathetic eyes fixed on Abigail. The awkward quietness made Abigail tense. Her stomach rumbled. She peered over the bed, hoping to finally get up, and saw the circle of white dust surrounding it.

“Could you sweep this up, please? It’s all dirty.”

Briefly, the nurse hesitated before leaving to fetch a small broom from downstairs. Abigail waited until just enough of the crumbs had been swept away for her to slip out of bed without dirtying her feet. She stood in the center of her bedroom and inhaled deeply. Gently, she fingered the chain Will had slipped around her neck and gripped it tightly. She yanked it loose, dropping the cross on the floor without touching it. Despite herself, despite everything, Abigail smiled. Her teeth scraped against her bottom lip.

“Have the house sealed for an official investigation,” she said. “And tell Dr. Bloom she will have to wait. I must continue my father’s work.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it’s done. I have been working on this little monster off and on for far longer than I wish to admit. Dedicated to Tbsavafob6, who listened to me plot and plan during all that time.
> 
> Peter Stumpp (d. 1589) was an early serial killer believed at the time to be a werewolf.
> 
> The title of the fic is the English translation of the Popul Vuh song, “Höre, der Du wagst” from Herzog’s Nosferatu soundtrack.
> 
> "O stream of blood, to heaven’s height you cried…" is from Hildegard von Bingen's "O Cruor Sanguinis". The songs Hannibal and Will quote each other are "Douce Dame Jolie" and "Je Vovroie Liement", respectively. "Incipit vita nova" is, of course, from Dante's La Vita Nuova. Can't have a Hannibal fic without quoting Dante at least once. "Come ye, join this dance..." is from a German Dance of Death. The quotes from Snow White come from the Grimm bros. Finally, the text Will reads about vampires is a combination of the vampire books in both Murnau and Herzog’s films.
> 
> I should mention that there is some debate about whether Gilles de Rais was guilty, but for purposes of this fic, he is.
> 
> Happy Halloween!


End file.
